


Disengagement

by turtle_paced



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Multi, assumes R plus L equals J, canonical character deaths, canonical marriages and pairings for the most part, characters and pairings added as they appear, deaths of canonical characters, pre-series AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 120,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtle_paced/pseuds/turtle_paced
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The killing of Mad King Aerys Targaryen by person or persons unknown worked out well for virtually everyone, including Jaime Lannister. Disgraced for failing his king (if only they knew) and tasked with protecting no-longer-a-Princess Rhaenys Targaryen until she can be wed to Robert’s eldest legitimate son (whenever Robert gets around to producing one), Jaime must go north with the Starks (a prickly, judgmental lot) to look after her. Cold, bored, and guarding a five-year-old, Jaime might yet learn to be a truly honourable knight – but even far from King's Landing and Cersei, his dangerous secrets might catch up with him. Worse, his aren't the only dangerous secrets in the North…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Partial Failures

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo…this is my first fic. Wish me luck. Those warnings and the rating are mostly for the first chapter.
> 
> Chapter 1: Jaime ruins any number of plans, and Ned contends with entirely too many mysteries.

Whatever Ned Stark had been expecting when he burst into the throne room, it hadn’t been this.

The throne room was deserted. Utterly deserted. Eerily still. Even the sound of conflict outside was muted within the stone walls. By contrast, the hooves of his horse rang loud and clear against the stone, echoing up to the ceiling and the dragon skulls watching over them.

The Iron Throne itself loomed high above him, twisted and sinister and empty. No King was sitting on that throne.

Instead, its most recent occupant was lying on the steps to the dais, throat cut neatly open and royal blood dripping steadily down those steps to the main floor, advancing in a trickle towards Ned.

The whole hall stank of death.

Behind him, he heard Martyn Cassel ask, “Who could have done this?”

 _Who indeed?_ Ned didn’t know. There was nobody here, and there were so many people who might have wanted Aerys dead. Him included, and not one but two armies outside. Tywin Lannister's men had beaten him to most of the Keep; it could have been done on his orders. No lord or bannerman was here to claim it as a lawful execution, however. It looked like it was the product of treachery more base even than Tywin's own trick to gain entrance to the city.  _Where was the Kingsguard? Where were the knights sworn to guard the King from exactly this scenario?_

Now, however, was not the time to ponder this matter. “Secure the Keep,” he ordered, voice hoarse from a day of shouting commands. “We must have King’s Landing under control before Robert arrives.”

 

\---

 

Fortunately for both Jaime and Princess Rhaenys ("fortunately" being a relative value as far as Rhaenys' health was concerned), the man who dragged her out from under her father's bed was a sadistic prick. When Jaime burst into the room after hearing screams, the little princess had been sliced several times across the upper arms and the ribs, creating painful, bloody, shallow wounds. Nothing terribly serious, though. Before her attacker could process the interruption, Jaime stabbed him through the heart. He crumpled up, died, and Jaime kicked his body roughly to the side of the room.

The sigil on his shield was familiar. Black manticore on white, three gold coins – that was one of his father’s bannermen. He couldn’t put a name to the dead man, and couldn't remember even the name of the house.

It wasn't the only thing he had to worry about, though. If Rhaenys had been attacked, chances were that her brother was the real target. And there were sounds coming from the adjoining suite – Princess Elia’s suite. A man was laughing, and a woman’s faint voice was protesting hoarsely. As though she had screamed her voice out already. Elia's voice. He couldn't hear Aegon's cries. He didn't know how long these men had been here for.

Jaime quickly looked around Rhaegar’s room, which had been furnished for comfort rather than fortification. There was a cabinet in the corner that would have to do. “In there,” he whispered to the shaking, crying girl. She’d pissed herself, too. “Don’t move and don’t make a sound. I’ll be right back." To his surprise, she nodded and climbed in without protest. Being shut in a dark cabinet was better than having to look at the corpse, Jaime supposed. It wasn’t actually much safer than sitting right in the middle of the floor. Just about the first thing anyone would do upon searching these rooms would be to open that cabinet. But whatever kept the girl quiet and out of the way.

Whatever was happening on the other side of the door to Princess Elia’s rooms, he didn’t think a girl of five should see it.

Jaime eased the door open with his left hand, the sword in his right drawn and well bloodied already. As soon as he saw, he was glad he’d been quiet about his entrance. The man raping Princess Elia was gigantic. Gigantic and still wearing plate armour. Jaime couldn’t even see the princess, who must have been pinned underneath her attacker. Jaime had absolute confidence in his own skill, but better to get this over with quickly. Gods, the man had to be almost eight feet tall. Still, twice as heavy as Jaime or not, Jaime could win this in one stroke. He aimed carefully, not wanting to hit the princess, and swung his sword. The blow hacked most of the way through the man’s neck. Blood sprayed out, first in a dramatic gush, and then pumped out more steadily in heartbeat time. It was definitely a fatal wound, yet the man managed to push himself almost to a standing position before Jaime swung again. This time he severed the head completely. 

Unfortunately, the man’s corpse, still gigantic even missing its head, fell back on top of the princess. Jaime heard her gasp of pain. At least she was still alive. But she was badly hurt, he realised as he rolled the body of the man-mountain off her, and then off her bed entirely so she wouldn’t have to lie next to the body of her raper. Elia’s dress had been torn off her, her left arm was lying at a terrible angle, she was all over cuts and bruises – most of the blood on her face and chest was the dead man’s, thanks to Jaime’s intervention – but she was bleeding between the legs too. Jaime didn’t have the faintest idea how to bandage that.

There was a starburst of blood on one wall. On the floor beneath it was another body. A very small body.

“Rhaenys,” Princess Elia gasped as Jaime searched for something to cover her with. Her eyes were shut tight and she gave no sign of knowing who had saved her. If ‘saved’ was the right word, which Jaime rather doubted. “Where is…Rhaenys?" She must have heard her daughter screaming. Jaime noticed that Elia's fingers were bloody, the nails near torn out. She'd tried to fight back, bare hands against plate armour.

“She lives,” Jaime assured her as he gave up on the search for a spare blanket and folded the clean half of the one she was lying on over her. “A few cuts. Nothing serious. She’s hiding in her father’s room.”

“Good,” Elia nodded, then moaned softly with pain. Jaime started to shove a heavy dressing table in front of the door leading to the holdfast proper. “Don’t…let her see…” He might not have a choice. One room was more easily defended than two, and Princess Elia was in no state to be moved. That meant bringing her in here and trying to hold the doors. If he had to, he could take Princess Rhaenys and run, he supposed. He'd rather not; it was a death sentence for all three of them.

All this was pointless if one of Aerys’ pyromancers decided to burn the city without orders. Really, he should leave the princesses here and go kill the pyromancers instead.

But he was a knight of the Kingsguard. Even if he was a terrible Kingsguard.

So he covered Aegon’s body with the ruins of his mother’s fine green dress and pulled a curtain down to cover Elia’s attacker. Jaime recognised that man’s sigil too. He could even put a name to the house. Three black dogs on yellow; that was House Clegane. Jaime'd heard that both sons of that house were huge men; it looked like that was true in at least one case. More importantly, the Cleganes were his father’s bannermen too. He’d just killed two of his father’s bannermen. His father had sent his bannermen to kill Rhaegar’s wife and children. Lord Tywin was going to be angry. His father didn't like it when his men failed him. Not to mention that Jaime had just directly thwarted one of his plans.

Jaime returned to Rhaegar’s apartments, where all was as he’d left it. He couldn’t even hear sobbing from the cabinet. _Good girl._ He knocked softly on the door. “Princess? You can come out now, just be quiet.”

Rhaenys opened the door a hair, and, seeing Jaime, did as he said and climbed out. She still stank of piss and blood, though the cuts on her arms at least had mostly stopped bleeding. “We’re going to your mother’s room,” Jaime told her. “She’s hurt, so you sit next to her and hold her hand.” _And then we wait for someone who hopefully doesn’t want to kill us all on sight. That's a short enough list._ He barricaded the door in this room as best he could too. If one of those insane bastards torched Maegor’s, they were all in for a horrible, fiery death. No need to tell Elia and Rhaenys that. Their chances of living through this were slim enough as it was.

“Mama!” Rhaenys exclaimed as Jaime ushered her into Elia’s room, and tried to launch herself towards her mother. Jaime grabbed the girl’s sleeve.

“Careful,” he warned her. “Your mother is hurt, remember.” Rhaenys nodded and approached more carefully, thankfully keeping the bed between her and the bodies of her brother and the Clegane man. The last thing any of them needed was for her to scream in terror and draw attention to these rooms.

Elia opened her eyes as her daughter approached. It looked like it was almost more than she could stand. Her olive complexion was starting to look distinctly ashen. “Rhaenys,” she sighed, her eyes sliding shut again. With visible effort she mustered the strength to speak again. “Ser Jaime, my daughter…”

“I will not hand either of you over to anyone I think will hurt you,” he said.

There was a pause while Elia once again gathered her strength. Terrified, teary Rhaenys clutched at her mother’s hand, clearly not understanding. “Lannister men,” Elia said at last. “Attacked us.”

Jaime looked at the curtain-covered mass next to the window. His father’s bannerman. “I will not hand either of you over to anyone I think will hurt you,” he repeated. Either it was enough for Elia or she realised that she could do nothing more, because she did not try to speak again, just squeezed her daughter’s hand a little. It was also possible that she realised that Jaime himself couldn't do anything more either. One man against an army never worked out.

After a few minutes, Rhaenys asked, “Mama, where’s Aegon?” Her eyes were fixed on the smear of blood on the wall.

Elia turned her head to look at Rhaenys properly. “With the gods,” she said. “Like your father.”

That was finally too much for the girl. Rhaenys started to cry again in earnest. Softly, which was a relief.

A few minutes later, Jaime realised that Elia was almost certainly going to die. He could do nothing for her. He couldn’t even leave to get a maester who could do something for her, not that he’d trust Pycelle to treat her properly. He could only stand here and wait for her to bleed out. He’d never been much good at waiting.

After about an hour, shortly after Rhaenys had cried herself out and fallen into a fitful sleep, Jaime heard the unmistakeable sound of armoured men walking down the corridor. They passed Rhaegar’s rooms and stopped outside Elia’s door.

They were looking for Princess Elia specifically. And, no doubt, her children as well.

Jaime loosed his sword in its scabbard and moved towards the door. Someone was knocking. “Identify yourselves!” he called through to them. Elia had opened her eyes again and Rhaenys was stirring. If these men were his father’s, things were likely to get very exciting indeed. Fatally exciting. Better than waiting.

“Howland of House Reed,” an unfamiliar voice replied. “Sworn to the Starks.”

Stark men. The Starks had better reason than most to hate Targaryens. Jaime knew. He doubted that he'd ever forget why the Starks had good reason to hate Aerys. Not to mention the kidnapping-and-rape of Lyanna Stark. However. Jaime kept abreast of the scouting reports, and the ones he'd read on the Stark forces said that the new Lord Stark, whatever his name was – Eddard? That sounded about right – kept his army in good order and hanged proven rapers. That was far better than nothing. Stark men were probably the best they could surrender to, short of Arryn men.

And they were not his father’s men, who definitely wanted to kill them.

On the bed, Elia nodded weakly.

Jaime took a deep breath and began to take down the makeshift barricade.

 

\---

 

“Princess Rhaenys will be fine,” Howland Reed reported as Ned finally sat down to eat some supper. “The cuts she took will scar, but they are clean and shallow. With proper care they are unlikely to go bad.”

“Good,” Ned said. “That is…good.” And a major problem, if a better sort of problem than he’d been dealing with recently. Would that he had more problems involving children surviving.

“Princess Elia,” Howland continued in a sombre tone, “the maesters say will almost certainly die of her injuries. The loss of blood, broken bones, the damage to her organs…the wounds will fester. They told me that even a healthy woman would likely not survive what was done to her.”

Gods. Ned did not want to even imagine it, let alone formally inform the princess’s brothers. He would do it, but he wished there was some way he could say it that would not give a man nightmares. “It was Lannister men, you are certain?”

“Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane. Both houses are sworn to the Lannisters. And Ser Jaime was most insistent that your maesters take charge of the princesses’ treatment, rather than Grand Maester Pycelle.”

“How diligent of him,” Ned growled. “Jaime Lannister, defending the princesses from Lannister men while the king and Prince Aegon were murdered. It was Clegane and Lorch who did it?”  _And not Ser Jaime?_ That would be a mess, if Tywin Lannister's son had been complicit in the murder of the royal family. Ned could feel a headache brewing.

Howland nodded. “Clegane in particular has a reputation amongst the westermen.” That surprised Ned a little; with relative peace in the kingdoms for so many years, reputations like that were hard to come by. “It isn’t good,” Howland continued. “Dead parents, dead wife, dead sister. I talked to Princess Rhaenys as well and she said Ser Jaime leapt immediately to her defence upon finding her.”

“Maybe not staged then,” Ned grunted, though the situation still didn’t sit right with him. “But he was the sole Kingsguard in King’s Landing. He should have been with the king. Where in all the hells are the rest of the them, if not with Aerys?”

Howland, he knew, found this as disturbing as he himself did. They'd only found three Kingsguard at the Trident. “Storm’s End?” his friend suggested. Logic said that the missing knights of the Kingsguard must be there – it was the only active field of battle remaining. Ned and Howland, however, shared the feeling that neither logic nor even Aerys had dictated the movements of the Kingsguard in this war.

Why else would King Aerys have been left with but a single, inexperienced knight of dubious loyalty for protection?

“We’ll find out when we go to break the siege,” said Ned. “In the meantime, I think it would be a bad idea to leave Tywin Lannister in sole charge of King’s Landing.”

“I think that might prove fatal for Rhaenys Targaryen, yes,” Howland murmured.

Ned couldn’t disagree. “Set a guard on her. Only men we can trust. Keep Jaime Lannister away too, Kingsguard or no.” He felt very old and very tired all of a sudden. He still had that letter from Catelyn in the pocket of his breeches, the one that said she was with child. That in a few short months, if all went well, he would be a father. Shorter months, now; he'd received the letter two months ago. “Gods. The girl is five years old. Her brother was, what, a year? Hardly a threat to anyone’s throne.”

“Speaking of thrones, Ned,” and how good it was to be called _Ned_ rather than _Lord Stark_ these days, he’d always taken it for granted, “do we know who killed Aerys yet?”

“We do not,” said Ned. He’d tried to begin an investigation into the matter. It would not do to have a regicide running around loose. “It seems there were more people inside the Red Keep who wanted Aerys dead than there were outside of it.” He hadn’t questioned all the servants yet, but he had questioned enough to discover that they tried their best to avoid their erstwhile king. There were stories of executions, burnings, held for the flimsiest of reasons. Anyone with any sense whatsoever tried their utmost to avoid Aerys.

Except for Ser Jaime Lannister, whose duty generally compelled him to remain near Aerys. Ser Jaime again.

“It was well known that the only blades Aerys allowed near him these last years were those carried by the Kingsguard,” he said.

Howland caught on. “What does ‘allowed’ mean? Ser Jaime is one knight. If Ser Jaime left the room, for whatever reason, Aerys might well find himself with only his words to defend himself from an assassin.”

“Are you saying I should not suspect him?”

“I’m saying that when you question him, you should be cautious. Lord Tywin is said to hate that Ser Jaime joined the Kingsguard, but I’d wager he’d hate you implying his son is a regicide more, especially without proof.”

Just as suddenly as he’d felt old, Ned felt very young and out of his depth. Lord Tywin was not a man to be crossed lightly. Wherever there had been two Lannister men resting after a hard day of sacking the city, Ned had heard _The Rains of Castamere_ sung. Sooner or later there would probably be a version about King's Landing. Yet Ned would have to cross him, over that matter of two dead Lannister men killed in their mostly-successful attempt to murder a woman and her children.

Ned had just opened his mouth to ask Howland if he knew where Doran and Oberyn Martell could be contacted when there was a knock at the door. “Come in!” Ned called, and Ethan Glover poked his head around the door.

“My lord, Lord Dustin said to tell you. Ser Jaime Lannister has escaped our custody. He is nowhere to be found.”

That was all Ned needed, and the headache flared into full, painful life. Three days. He just had to last three days, and then these would be problems for Jon Arryn and Robert.

 

\---

 

It took two days for Jaime to track down and kill all of Aerys’ favourite pyromancers, the ones who knew where all the wildfire had been stored. The chaos in the city had been his friend, first in escaping the exhausted Stark men set to keep an eye on him, and then in killing his prey. Hopefully nobody would ever notice the disproportionate losses amongst the senior pyromancers.

He’d done reasonably well, he thought. Saved King’s Landing from a mad king and his equally mad pyromaniacs, saved a princess from his own father. Pity people would only ever know about the princess.

Of course, he was trying not to think about the other princess and the prince. No doubt Elia was dead by now. The maester that the tiny crannogman Reed had summoned said she would die. Jaime had understood very little of what the maester had said, but enough to be very glad that he had put an end to Clegane.

Briefly he debated where to go next. King’s Landing was devoid of kings, a terrible position for a member of the Kingsguard to be in. Nor was he in a hurry to explain his actions to his father. He hadn’t seen Lord Tywin since the day he left to Harrenhal. His father had been long gone when Jaime returned early, along with Cersei. He hadn’t seen Tyrion in even longer and couldn’t imagine Lord Tywin’s long stay at Casterly Rock had improved their relationship any.

Back to the White Sword Tower, perhaps? A change of clothes and a bath sounded quite appealing. Sooner or later his father’s men or the Stark men would catch up with him, and it would be easier to face them in a fresh white cloak. Yes, that was what he’d do, and then present himself to the Starks of his own free will.

Or, he saw as he finally approached the White Sword Tower, he might present himself to the Starks of his own free will before changing clothes. “Good evening!” he hailed the men stationed around the door. The various devices the men bore were unfamiliar, so they were probably northmen. There were a lot of unfamiliar sigils in King's Landing these days. But unfamiliar sigils, plain armour and beards you could lose a rat in meant they were northern soldiers. It seemed that Lord Tywin controlled the city of King’s Landing, while Lord Stark controlled the Red Keep. “Might a man be allowed to wash his face before going to see your liege?”

Judging by the sour look on the face of the man in charge, Jaime guessed not.

Lord Stark had set up operations in the old Master of Coin’s study, a relatively central location that nevertheless indicated its temporary occupant had no aspirations to higher office. The man himself was younger than Jaime had expected, only about twenty, with a hard plain face, cold grey eyes, and premature threads of the same colour in his brown hair to match. “Ser Jaime,” Stark said, as if Jaime hadn’t been completely absent for two days in a time of crisis. “I had hoped to ask you some questions earlier.”

“I pray you will pardon my absence,” Jaime said with his brightest, toothiest smile. “My opportunities for looting were going begging.”

Stark ignored that. “It is your whereabouts two days ago that concern me. I would have your account, ser.”

Jaime shrugged. “When it became clear my father had not arrived to aid him, Aerys ordered me from his side.” _To fetch Rossart, so they could burn the city to the ground._ “I did as I was bid.” _After I cut his throat and left him to bleed out before his precious throne._

And he’d found Rossart too, oh yes. Funny how nobody had any questions about _him_.

“You did not send any knights to guard the king in your stead?”

Jaime barked out an incredulous laugh. “Perhaps you noticed the small disruption in the city as you made your way to the Keep. What knights there were, were attending to that. I tried. I failed.” That was a lie, but one that would be difficult to disprove. Jaime had walked out as if nothing had happened. He'd walked all the way to the Tower of the Hand as if he were doing a routine, completely insane errand for the Mad King. Everyone he had passed had other concerns, mostly about the army stampeding through the city.

The corners of Stark’s mouth tightened in displeasure. No doubt the thought of the king so shoddily defended bothered him. Not to mention Aerys’ sheer folly. Hopefully it was that bothering Stark, and not a hole in Jaime’s story.

“So you went to guard Prince Aegon instead?” Stark asked.

“Yes.” Too late. Just minutes too late, probably. He wondered if Aegon had been dashed against the wall even as Jaime rescued Rhaenys. Maybe if he had killed Rossart more quickly he could have been there in time. Truly, he didn’t know which was worse: that he might have been able to save Aegon, or that it had been impossible since the instant he made the decision to kill Rossart instead of checking on the remaining Targaryens. “How fares Princess Elia?” he asked abruptly.

A flicker of emotion showed for a second in Stark’s icy eyes. “Dead. The maesters gave her milk of the poppy and eased her passing not two hours ago.”

She’d held on longer than Jaime thought she would, anyway. He’d rather liked Elia. There wasn’t much fire to her, not like Cersei, but she had more steel in her than he’d expected from such a frail woman. “And Princess Rhaenys? Does she know?”

“Yes,” Stark said. “She is in the sept now. Under guard. She is largely unharmed, thanks to you.” Jaime thought he heard a trace of approval in the other man’s voice. He’d saved a bloody princess; what more could Stark want of him? “What do you know of their attackers?”

No point in dissembling. “Nothing, save that they were my father’s men. When I intervened, I didn’t even know that.”

“You claim ignorance?”

“I have not seen my father for well over a year,” Jaime replied, keeping his voice level as possible even as his smile slipped away. “I knew – know – nothing of his plans. And I am no Clegane, Stark. I am not the sort of knight who murders children.”

_I am the sort of knight who murders kings._

“My apologies,” Stark said stiffly. “Your help in this matter is appreciated. Will you bend the knee, when Robert arrives?”

Gladly. Stark could not possibly know how gladly. “Of course,” he said.

This time it was relief that flickered across Stark’s features. Jaime almost felt sorry for the man. If Jaime had decided otherwise, Stark would be contending against Lord Tywin over Jaime’s head. King’s Landing had survived Tywin’s sack, but Jaime doubted it could stand a second battle between Lannister and Stark forces. Especially not with Baratheon and Arryn armies but a day’s march away.

“Good,” said Stark. “You may go, Ser Jaime, though no doubt Lord Arryn will have more questions for you when he arrives. It would be for the best if you did not make any more…excursions.”

Stay in the Red Keep like a good lackey. Well, that was fine with Jaime. He’d done what he needed to do. Now he just had to avoid his father. 

He wouldn’t be able to do that for very long, he knew.

 

\---

 

Robert arrived with pomp and circumstance, and also Jon Arryn. The Iron Throne could not long remain unoccupied, and so Robert was speedily installed. Nobody had made him a crown yet, but in these volatile times just sitting on that throne was enough to make a king. Ned personally thought that everyone who wanted such a task was mad. 

But in spite of all of that, Ned had never been so relieved in his life. Soon this would all be over and he could go home. Home to a woman he’d never imagined marrying, hopefully a child too, and lands he never thought he’d rule. Without Father, without Brandon, without Lyanna - one way or another. Gods, he wished he knew where Lyanna was.

He couldn’t afford to drift off in the middle of these proceedings, though, no matter how tired he was. Lord Tywin was about to speak, from bended knee before the throne. “I swear my loyalty to you, your grace,” Lord Tywin announced in a carrying voice, “and offer these tokens of my fealty. First, the city of King’s Landing, taken in your name and for your cause.”

“Accepted, with my thanks,” Robert said.

Jon Arryn, sitting in the Hand’s chair, added “ _The Rains of Castamere_ will be heard loud and long over the city for many days to come.” It was a comment intended as much for Robert as for Lord Tywin. _Go carefully; Tywin Lannister is treacherous, ruthless and above all, able._ Ned, for his part, needed no reminding. Not after he had seen the corpse of Prince Aegon and, later, that of Princess Elia. He did not trust Jaime Lannister one bit, but Ned could easily understand why the errant Kingsguard had dispatched his father’s bannermen.

“Second, my daughter Cersei, the fairest maid in all the Seven Kingdoms, for your queen.”

At that, Robert laughed. “It’s a tempting offer, Lord Tywin, I’m sure your Cersei is a beauty. But I must decline. I am still betrothed, after all!”

Tywin did not so much as smile. Rumour had it that he hadn’t smiled since his wife died, and had never laughed at all in his life. “Lady Lyanna’s whereabouts are unknown. I pray that you recover her safely. My offer will remain open, should your betrothed meet with any misadventure.”

A chill ran down Ned’s spine, all the more terrible for knowing that the breach between Lord Tywin and Aerys had started when Aerys refused a match between Rhaegar and Lady Cersei. Lyanna would never be safe here, he realised. Not even wed to Robert – especially not wed to Robert. What was he to do, though? What could be done to ensure his sister’s safety? Nothing until she was recovered, at least. He was getting ahead of himself, daydreaming again. And Lord Tywin was _still_ speaking. “ – the Targaryen line is all but finished and your throne secure,” Tywin finished.

Ned took a deep breath and spoke for the first time at this audience. “You should not accept this gift, your grace. It was the product of an attack so brutal even Lord Tywin’s own son, Ser Jaime, could not countenance it.”

Lord Tywin’s eyes were the pale green of sea-ice in the Bay of Seals. He steadily ignored Ned to address Robert. “My son did his sworn duty, however unwisely.”

There was a pause, in which Robert’s face grew ever more thunderous. It omened ill for Ned. His friend had grown increasingly less reasonable regarding Prince Rhaegar. If anything, it had been even worse since Robert actually killed the man. Surely, though…

“The treatment of Princess Elia should also stand in infamy,” Ned said.

“I gave no orders for her death,” Lord Tywin countered. “The man who took it upon himself to mistreat her so is dead, and as you say, by my own son’s hand.”

“Your grace,” Ned appealed. “Aegon was hardly a year old. A babe.”

“Not a babe,” Robert said in the coldest voice Ned had ever heard him use. “Dragonspawn. I’ll hear no more about it, Ned. Lord Tywin – your gift is accepted, with my gratitude.”

Somehow, Ned managed to hold his tongue for the rest of the audience, frozen with anger inside. Murder. That was the name for it. Prince Aegon had been murdered. And Robert was going to let it pass. Let it pass, because Aegon had been Rhaegar’s child. _Dragonspawn._ Hardly.

This was not what he’d fought for.

As soon as it was over, he stalked out of the Hall without another glance at Robert. He gave the order for his men to muster and went to find Jon Arryn.

Jon Arryn, for his part, sighed when Ned told him of his intention to leave and break the siege at Storm’s End. “Ned, lad. You must discuss this with Robert before you go. Storm’s End is his castle. You do your best to rein in your temper, and I’ll make sure his grace does the same."

But Ned had had enough. Three days of King’s Landing was more than enough. Three days of trying to sort through Lord Tywin’s gruesome messes. “You should not have done that, Robert,” he said as soon as his new king entered the room. “It was a miserly gift as well as a murderous one. Prince Viserys escaped to Dragonstone with Queen Rhaella. Princess Rhaenys still lives.”

“Hells with them all,” Robert snapped. “Lord Tywin would have done us a favour if he’d been successful. I meant what I said. Dragonspawn, all of them.”

Ned was about to ask Robert if he cared to see what little remained of Aegon’s skull, but Jon Arryn interrupted. “Your grace, a suggestion. You may well have to get used to Rhaenys, at least.”

“And why is that?” Robert asked, rounding on Jon with just as much fury as he’d snapped at Ned.

“The best way to secure the throne for your own children would be to wed your heir to Rhaenys,” Jon Arryn explained. “It would strengthen your connection to a Targaryen claim. Not to mention it would smooth over relations with the Martells, if Elia’s daughter were to be Queen one day.”

That was all it took to stop Robert in his tracks. It was a good idea, the best course of action they could take; Ned could see that he knew that. “I won’t have her in the Red Keep,” Robert said sullenly. “I don’t want any of _his_ spawn near Lyanna.” He glowered at Ned. “You can take her, if you care so much about it.”

“I am going to break the siege at Storm’s End,” Ned replied coldly. “I cannot take a five-year-old girl with me.”

“She’ll keep,” Robert said with an ugly laugh. Jon Arryn had the flat look on his face that all through their childhood meant that he was most upset with them both. “I’ll make sure she’s well guarded. As long as I don’t have to set eyes on her.”

“As long as I don’t have anything to do with dishonour and murder of the kind you endorsed today,” Ned said, and walked out on Robert for a second time.

 

\---

 

Jaime was bored. It was not a problem he’d expected to have. It seemed the only thing worse than boring duties was boring lack of duties. Robert Baratheon was still using his own guards, and as for Jaime’s fellows…well, Barristan Selmy had survived the Trident and bent the knee. Jonothor Darry and Lewyn Martell had been killed at the same battle, or so he’d heard. There had been no word about the Lord Commander; nor Oswell Whent; nor Ser Arthur.

Come to think of it, Jaime hadn’t seen Ser Arthur for a long time. Not since before war broke out.

He took his time checking his weapons and armour after practicing, no longer under the suspicious eyes of Stark men but the more discreet guard of Arryn soldiers. Lord Arryn himself had questioned him already, a good deal more thoroughly than Stark had. His newly minted grace had not. Somehow, he got the impression that Baratheon didn't care and didn't want to know who killed Aerys. Jaime hadn’t even seen the new king yet, the man was so disinterested in the Kingsguard. In any event, Jaime was due to formally bend the knee on the morrow. Maybe then he would have some duties to attend to.

Then a man knocked on his door. “Lord Tywin would like to see you.”

This was it, then. Jaime stood up, and left his white cloak behind. His father wouldn’t want to see him wearing it.

His escort brought him to the Master of Laws’ study, rather than the Tower of the Hand. Lord Arryn was the Hand now, not Tywin Lannister, as long as Robert Baratheon should be king. Jaime’s heart raced, like before a tourney – or a battle. He hoisted his best smile onto his face and opened the door.

“You wanted to see me, Father?”

Lord Tywin met his gaze, his green eyes hard and marble-cool. It wasn’t so different from being stared down by Lord Stark, really, and Jaime could handle that. Had handled that.

But Jaime looked away first, as he always did. “How are Cersei and Tyrion?” he asked his father. If he asked first, he might actually get an answer, before the rest of the conversation was about what Lord Tywin wanted to speak about.

“They are well,” Lord Tywin said shortly, before getting to his point. “I have been informed that you will be staying on in the Kingsguard.” He did not motion for Jaime to sit, though he was seated himself and there was a chair standing empty across his desk.

“The Kingsguard serves for life,” Jaime said, slightly uncertain where this was going.

“Aerys was murdered on your watch,” his father said bluntly. “It would be better if you had killed him yourself. Apologies could be made and under the circumstances I dare say Robert Baratheon would have released you from service honourably. As it is, your competence has been called into question most severely.”

For one mad second Jaime considered telling his father that he _had_ killed Aerys, that Aerys had been planning to burn the whole city and Jaime had saved them all, and the only people he’d failed were Princess Elia and Prince Aegon. But no. No. He still wanted to be a great knight.

“Aerys sent me away,” Jaime said instead, and hoped his father couldn’t hear the half-truth. Not to mention he hoped that his father would never learn that Aerys had tried to send Jaime to kill him. “I did what I could for the Prince and the Princesses.”

If anything, his father’s eyes became even colder. “You should not have done that either. It would have been safer if Rhaenys had been killed as well.”

“She’s a little girl!” Jaime burst out. “Your man was trying to bleed her out slowly when I arrived!”

“His mistake was not using a pillow,” Lord Tywin admitted. “Aegon should have received the same treatment. Elia Martell should not have been harmed at all.”

Gods. He’d been thinking of leaving Aegon, Rhaenys and Elia to his father’s care while he killed the pyromancers. If he hadn’t decided to check on them first –

“So did you ask me here just to critique my performance as a guard?” Jaime asked, not wanting to think about that anymore. “Would you like to check the shine on my armour as well?”

“I asked you here to convince you to give up this ridiculous Kingsguard notion,” Tywin said. “You are a Lannister. The heir to Casterly Rock. You should behave as such. If you do not resign from the Kingsguard, Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn will likely as not pack you off north, guarding Princess Rhaenys until she is of age to wed.”

“But – her family has been deposed.”

Lord Tywin came perilously close to rolling his eyes. “It would not be an issue if she had died. But as our new king apparently has no intention of killing the girl himself, he must needs ensure she is never used as a rallying point against him. Which, in this case, means wedding her to his heir, whenever he produces one. It also means removing her from the Red Keep, away from plotters, and yet keeping her under the eye of a trusted Baratheon loyalist of suitable standing. That would be Lord Stark. You will be sent along to assure the Martells that Rhaenys is being treated with due respect, and because you have proved inadequate to guard a king."

Jaime stood in stunned silence. It wasn’t often his father was wrong about such matters, he knew. But, north? The farthest north he’d ever been was Riverrun, and he remembered how chill he’d found the spring there. North, for years, guarding a child under the icy, judgmental gaze of Lord Stark.

Far, far away from Cersei.

Far, far away from his father. Him and Rhaenys both.

“And, of course, to assure Lord Stark that I will not be allowed to dictate to Robert,” Lord Tywin added after a few seconds. “You will be a glorified hostage in a white cloak.”

Well, he’d been that before. Better Stark’s hostage than Aerys’. He wanted to _earn_ that cloak, and if he walked away now he’d never be reappointed. He hadn’t told even Cersei how much he wanted to earn his cloak. If that meant spending years guarding a five-year-old…it was better than spending years guarding a king who burned people alive. He’d just have to make Cersei understand. It was just a few years. Besides, his father might be wrong.

“I serve at the pleasure of the king,” Jaime said. “The king has not seen fit to release me from duty.”

Lord Tywin’s expression did not change. “We will speak about this again,” he promised. “You may go, ser.”

On the morrow, he bent the knee to Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, and pledged anew to serve as Kingsguard in whatsoever capacity the king decreed.

Lord Tywin had not been wrong.

 

\---

 

Robert’s brother was a singularly unlikeable man, Ned thought. He’d never met two brothers less alike in temperament. That said, Stannis was brave and iron-willed, and he deserved a great deal of praise for seeing Storm’s End through the siege. Hopefully Robert would have the sense to honour his brother appropriately. Ned was overseeing the food rationing for a modest celebration (every maester present, as well as a few older northmen, said that people as starved as the inhabitants of Storm’s End were should not be feasting lest they do themselves more harm) when Howland Reed found him.

“No members of the Kingsguard were ever involved in the siege here, Ned,” he said.

“Gods damn it!” Ned snapped. “Does nobody know where the last three are?”

Gently, quietly, Howland replied. “Perhaps not where, but we both know with whom.”

_Oh, Lya. I fear this will come to grief for you no matter what happens._


	2. Wives and Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small children cause problems and mixed feelings abound as Robert's wedding approaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fast update! Really fast update (by my standards)! They'll usually take longer.
> 
> Minor warning for this chapter: Jaime and Cersei are in a sexual relationship (though I do not write graphic sex scenes). Also that relationship is not emotionally healthy.

Lady Rhaenys Targaryen of Dragonstone, all of five years old, had apparently not spoken a word since she insisted to whatshisname the diplomatic crannogman that Jaime had saved her. Not one word, not even to say goodbye to her mother or pray aloud for the souls of her family. Unless one counted the screams in the night or the sudden bouts of crying, which Jaime didn’t. He was torn between pity and irritation, mostly, because he was often the only person who could calm Rhaenys back to sleep. This was in spite of the girl being in the temporary care of a pair of septas until Lord Stark arrived back in King’s Landing.

“She feels safe with you, Ser Jaime,” explained the daytime septa, a plump, stern-mouthed woman of about five-and-forty named Jenny. “After what she’s been through, it is more than understandable.”

“I’m her guard, not her nursemaid,” he complained. “That’s your job. Or Isella’s.” Isella was the night septa, a young woman who was every bit as sweet-natured and even-tempered as she was plain of face. Exactly the sort of woman to deal with a distraught child.

“Yours is the only familiar face she has left,” Septa Jenny said sharply. “She will get better. In the meantime, show some compassion, ser.”

He stopped complaining about the screaming fits. 

Ser Barristan returned three weeks after Jaime bent the knee, fully recovered from the injury he took at the Trident. The older man had done his knee-bending at the Trident itself, and was here rewarded by being appointed Lord Commander. It said nothing good for Gerold Hightower’s chances of surviving the war, but nothing unrealistic either. Lord Commander Hightower would not bend the knee. Jaime knew that as well as Selmy did.

Not that anyone seemed to know anything about where Ser Gerold, Ser Oswell and Ser Arthur were. Here, Selmy was just as much at a loss as Jaime. The Kingsguard was badly under strength, but no new appointments would be made until those three had been sorted out.

Selmy had been the latest person to question Jaime about Aerys. He told the lies he was both getting used to and growing to hate – “Aerys ordered me away”; “He was alive when I left”; “I don’t know who killed him.” _I killed him. I cut his throat and was glad when he died. Every man, woman and child in King’s Landing should be glad Mad King Aerys is dead_. The new Lord Commander’s disappointment in him was palpable. “You are doing well with Lady Rhaenys, though,” Selmy said at the end of the interview. “The King will recall you to duty here in time, I’m sure.” More hesitantly, even safe within the White Sword Tower, he added, “You did well to save her, Ser Jaime.”

They were dangerous words to say (the habits of Aerys' court were not easily unlearned), and Jaime appreciated them all the more for it. It felt like the first praise he’d got about the entire affair. Everyone thought him incapable.  _Nobody_ had ever thought him incapable before.

Lord Tywin had not asked to speak with him again. It occurred to Jaime that his father might leave him to his guard duty for years in the hope that he’d learn his lesson.

Good news for the Baratheon regime came in periodically. Stark broke the siege at Storm’s End. Robert’s brother Stannis sailed up a fortnight later to be named Master of Ships, Lord of Storm’s End, and Lord Protector of Dragonstone. Then he sailed off again to actually take the bloody place. The miserable rock suited the second Baratheon brother right down to the ground, Jaime thought.

Stark, however, dropped off the map entirely. Most of his army returned, without the man himself. He’d gone to find his sister, rumour had it. Lady Lyanna, Robert’s betrothed, the woman over whom this godsforsaken mess had started. Jaime wished he’d hurry up and find her already so he could get this waiting business over with. If he had to go to Winterfell, he wanted to  _go_ to Winterfell, and not sit around waiting on someone else.

Three months after the sack of King’s Landing, Lord Stark returned. Without his sister. And Jaime remembered the offer he’d been told his father made Robert on the day he pledged his loyalty.

 

\---

 

“I’m taking her bones back to Winterfell,” Ned told Robert. “She asked it of me.”

Tears were welling up in Robert’s eyes. He’d sat down heavily when Ned told him the news. “Her last request?”

“Yes.” _No._ “I am sorry, Robert.”

“A fever,” Robert repeated. “Just a fever. She survived kidnapping and rape to be killed by some sickness. Fate truly is a fickle bitch.”

They sat in silence for a little while, all harsh words between them set aside. Here and now, Lyanna was more important than anything Lord Tywin could order. And Robert was right in this: it was scarcely believable that Lyanna, proud and brave and wild, had succumbed to a fever. Ned had held her as she died and he still couldn’t believe it himself.

“We had a raven from your wife,” Robert said suddenly. “Not a week ago. I’ll send someone to get it from Jon’s study.”

If all had gone well, Catelyn would have given birth by now, Ned realised, and felt a stab of fear. He knew how childbirth could go wrong. “Please.” Had it been so long already? Married for near a year, Father and Brandon dead for more? It felt like it had been just weeks.

Robert did so, and called for more wine as well. “You deserve some good news,” he said. “I don’t know what I would have done without you this past year. Gods know you’ve lost too much to those bastards.”

He wondered if Lyanna had known what her hasty actions would bring on them all. He doubted it. As he loved her, oft times she just didn’t _think_. Rhaegar Targaryen had been no better in this case. What had the man expected from his mad father? Calm reason and a rational response? If only he could call them both back from death and demand an explanation.

And Brandon. Brandon he knew hadn’t thought about the consequences of calling out the prince on his actions, the fool. He always was too hot-headed. Ned missed him terribly. Once he fully absorbed Lya’s death, he’d miss her just as badly.

Robert tossed the letter on his lap, trying to smile. Trying to pretend that they were back in the Vale and Ned had just got a letter from home. “What does it say?”

He scanned the contents until he found the words he was looking for. _I am well, and so is our son._ “I have a son,” he said. “Catelyn writes that she named him Robb.”

“Ah, that is an honour!” Robert said and passed Ned a goblet of Arbor red. “Your lady wife has excellent taste in names. Congratulations to you both. Now let’s get drunk, eh, Ned? A toast for your boy, and another for Lyanna’s memory.”

Ned drank both toasts, but no more. He kept Robert company while his grieving friend drank himself into a stupor, then left for his own rooms, and the babe he hadn’t told Robert about. The babe he could never tell Robert the full truth about, just as he couldn’t tell Robert that Lyanna had died of _childbed_ fever. Lya’s boy. Rhaegar Targaryen’s last living son.

Jon Arryn found Ned there, standing over the boy’s cradle and watching him sleep. “Who’s this, then?” Jon asked, apparently surprised.

“My natural son,” Ned lied. “With your permission, my lord, I’d like to name him after you.”

“Permission granted,” Jon said. “The Seven Kingdoms can never have too many men named Jon. Snow, yes, for northern bastards?” He peered over to see the boy Ned had just named after him. “He has your look.”

Ned nodded, unable to speak and terrified that somehow Jon Arryn would see someone else in Jon Snow’s infant features. An irrational fear – young Jon could hardly have favoured Lya more strongly – but there all the same.

“I’m happy to help you find a place for him to foster. With Lord Royce, perhaps? He respects you; he would take your boy. He would get a fine education in that household.”

“Thank you,” Ned said, “but that won’t be necessary. I plan to raise him in Winterfell myself.”

Jon drew in a sharp breath. “Your wife won’t like that. Ned, for her sake –“

“I know.” He did. But he promised. And besides… “His mother is dead.” Lya was dead. Brandon and their father were dead too. More than half his family, and several good friends besides. He didn’t _want_ to send his nephew away. Not even for Catelyn, who had been very kind to him and didn’t deserve the embarrassment.

“You were fond of the woman?”

“Very much.” His voice cracked on the words.

“Oh, Ned. I’m so sorry. You’re a man grown now, it’s your decision to make, of course.” Though Jon’s tone still implied that he felt it was a foolish decision. It was entirely possible that it was. Nevertheless, Ned had made up his mind.

Ned ushered his former guardian out of the room and back to the study. Better to let the babe sleep, blissfully ignorant of the fact that both his grandfathers, his uncle, and his brother were all murdered recently in this castle. “You wanted to talk to me about something, my lord?”

Jon Arryn sat down by the unlit fireplace. Even the early southron spring was too warm for Ned’s liking, so he asked the servants to leave the fireplace cold. He poured himself a goblet of water – he’d had enough of wine for the night – and passed Jon one as well. “I wanted to know if you’d be staying for Robert’s wedding,” Jon said.

Gods, Ned hadn’t thought of that. But of course Robert had to marry someone, and soon. The Kingdoms needed a Queen - and Robert needed an heir. The sooner the better.

“I know it will be difficult for you, for you both, so soon after Lady Lyanna’s death, but if it doesn’t happen soon then Lord Tywin is like to grow fractious.”

“It will be Lady Cersei, then?” _Queen_ Cersei.

“It has to be.” Jon didn’t sound very pleased. “There’s no other match that offers so much. Knowing that, it would be a grave insult to pass her over, and look what that brought Aerys. We need Tywin, Ned, as much as I wish we didn’t. Can you delay your return to Winterfell another six weeks? There is much to be done in the meantime that I would welcome your input on.”

He wanted to go home. If he could have, his trip up the Roseroad would have merged smoothly into a trip up the Kingsroad, all the way to Winterfell. Never to return to King’s Landing, preferably. “Yes,” he said. “But not much longer than that. I have scarce been in my own lands since …I succeeded to my title.”

“The Goldroad is clear and safe,” Jon assured him. “The negotiations for Lady Cersei’s hand will not be protracted, and the wedding itself kept relatively simple. You’re not the only one who wants to go home.”

“It’s been a long enough war,” Ned said.

“And it is not quite over yet. I need to catch you up on the siege of Dragonstone before tomorrow’s meetings. We might want to order a small supper here, for I fear this will be a long evening…”

 

\---

 

How he had missed Casterly Rock!

The greatest fortress in Westeros slowly came into view above the city of Lannisport, rising majestically far above the rooftops, gleaming in the morning sun. Home. He would have all of four days home with Cersei before they had to return to King’s Landing. And Tyrion as well, Father never let him far from home. He turned in his saddle and shouted back, “A few hours more, and we’ll be at the Rock for lunch!” He could smell the clean sea air.

To his great surprise, his companion chuckled. “Looking forward to it, Ser Jaime?” Selmy asked him. There were still shadows in his eyes, however, the same shadows that had been there since he heard of the deaths of their sworn brothers, all three killed in Dorne. They had taken several of Lord Stark's most trusted friends with them, in an impressive, if impolitic, display of martial prowess.

“I haven’t seen my sister or my brother since before the tourney at Harrenhal,” Jaime explained, slightly embarrassed. “It’s been even longer since I was at the Rock.”

“It’s always nice to visit home,” Selmy said with a nod. “Tell me, how old is your brother? Your lord father never speaks of him.”

“Tyrion? He must be nine or so now.”

“He must have grown a lot since you last saw him.”

Selmy realised his mistake as soon as he’d said it – remembered one of the reasons why Lord Tywin never spoke of his second son. “I’m sure he hasn’t,” Jaime replied with a smile. He didn’t take offense. Nothing could ruin his good mood today. “But I’m sure he’s read at least two dozen books in my absence. His head will be bigger than ever.” Without waiting for a reply, he spurred his horse on ahead.

Two weeks of respite from Rhaenys’ interrupted sleep had done him a world of good. He slept the nights through and felt much better for it. And, better yet, he was out of King’s Landing. Finally. He hadn’t realised just how much he’d come to loathe every stone of that rotten keep. In fact, he might be free of the Red Keep for several years to come. Now that was a benefit he hadn’t fully appreciated before.

He stopped at the entrance to Lannisport to wait for the rest of the party to catch up. The thing about being part of an honour guard was that he had to actually be part of a guard. They had to present themselves at the Rock together. He had to remember that this wasn’t just a visit home for him.

Jaime bought some fresh bread for himself and an apple for his horse, struck up a conversation with some guardsmen, and resisted the urge to run for the rock as fast as he could and surprise Cersei (while she bathed, hopefully). But he was patient, not least because he knew perfectly well that Cersei wouldn’t like it if he interfered with any of the preparations for her wedding. It wouldn’t be long now.

When Selmy and the notable knights of the Stormlands finally reached Lannisport, Jaime fell back in with them. They rode through the town in their shiny armour, to the stares and smiles of the smallfolk. And Jaime wondered, just for an instant, what would have happened if he had told the truth about killing Aerys. Would he have returned here in disgrace, or been sent off to the Wall? Would anyone have believed him, when his father had sacked King’s Landing by treachery and murdered the other members of Aerys’ family? Almost certainly not.

It was better this way.

He saw Cersei’s dress first, at a distance as they rode up the causeway, its bright scarlet standing out against the stone as she waited on the wall and watched their approach. He knew for sure it was her when he saw the sun shining off her golden hair. Finally, as they came to a halt at the main gates of the Rock, he saw her eyes, green as grass, and her smile, just for him. Then she vanished, no doubt retreating to the courtyard to greet the entire party.

“We are the honour guard, come to escort Lady Cersei to her wedding!” Ser Barristan called out to the guardsmen.

“You are expected, good sers, and welcome,” the guardsman replied, and gave the order to open the gates. They creaked slowly open, and the urge to dismount and run to his sister was stronger than ever.

She was waiting across the courtyard, the household lined up neatly to greet them, a platter of bread and salt in her hands. Tyrion was there, as were – to Jaime’s delight – his uncles Kevan and Gerion, though not his uncle Tygett. “On behalf of my father, Lord Tywin Lannister, I welcome you to Casterly Rock,” she said in a clear, carrying voice. “You are our honoured guests.”

Cersei went to each guardsman, listening to Selmy’s introductions and politely introducing herself and Tyrion in return, ensuring everyone received hospitality. Jaime was last. “Ser Jaime I know, of course,” she said with a bright smile. She kissed him on the cheek and gave him his bread and salt. “He is always welcome home.”

“Jaime!” Tyrion stuck out his hand for Jaime to shake, and Jaime crouched to do so, and to look him in the eyes. His little brother was still ferociously ugly and seemed shorter than ever, as Jaime had put on his last few inches of height in King’s Landing, whilst Tyrion had scarcely grown at all.

“Why, little brother,” he said. “I do believe you’ll be taller than me soon.”

Cersei frowned and Selmy raised his eyebrows, but Tyrion only smiled. “Uncle Gerion says all the pretty girls will like me better than you in a few years too.”

Jaime laughed. “They’re all yours. Now, you must tell me all that you’ve been doing since I left…”

The feasting that night seemed interminable, even though Jaime was thrilled to see his family again. He listened to Gerion’s developing plans to sail to the ruins of Valyria with apprehension (though Gerion said that if he eventually did it, it would not be for a few years yet), and found out that Tygett was absent since his wife Darlessa was expecting a babe shortly. So too was Kevan’s wife, and his little cousin Lancel was walking now and making a terrible nuisance of himself. Tyrion, of course, was _always_ a terrible nuisance and had been since he learned to speak. He wanted to be a septon or a dragon-rider (maybe a dragon-riding septon), and their father had caught him trying to learn mummer’s tumbling tricks. Or succeeding in learning them; Gerion mentioned that Tyrion had managed to walk on his hands all the length of the high table, the sight of which must have just thrilled Lord Tywin.

All evening, he could feel Cersei’s eyes on him.

Jaime was learning about patience, though, so he waited until the feast was over and most everyone had retired before he went to his sister’s room. He’d hardly finished knocking at her door before her slim white hand was reaching around to pull him into the room.

When they were finished, and Jaime felt both thoroughly ravished and much happier than he had in years, Cersei spoke. “I told you this would work.” She kissed him on the mouth. “I will be Queen,” – she kissed his neck – “and you will be Kingsguard. Lord Commander, once Selmy is gone.” She kissed his chest. “We can have this,” she shimmied down to kiss his belly and looked up at him, her green eyes shining, “every night.”

Jaime nudged her off him before she could go any further, heart heavy. “You hadn’t heard? I’m not staying in King’s Landing, Cersei. King Robert is sending me north, to guard his future son’s betrothed.”

Cersei hissed with fury. “You’re _mine_ ,” she told him, and proceeded to prove exactly that. Jaime didn’t even try to stop her this time. They only had three more days, and whatever time they could find in King’s Landing before her wedding and Jaime’s departure.

“I’ll persuade Robert to send you back,” she said when they were finished the second time and she was tucked against his side. “A year. That’s all it will take.”

“You’ll save me from the frozen wastes?” Jaime drawled. He should dress and return to his rooms, possibly even head down to the yard for early practice. He didn’t want to, though.

“Trust me,” Cersei said. And Jaime always had. Jaime always would.

 

\---

 

To his shame, Ned had almost forgotten about his other responsibility.

His days had indeed been exceptionally busy. He’d prevailed upon Wyman Manderly to help support the siege of Dragonstone, the only one of his bannermen in a position to do so. He’d arranged for a good deal of his men to return to their homes, particularly those that hailed from his western shores and were at risk of Ironborn raids. He’d sent a raven to commission a likeness of Lyanna for Winterfell’s crypts. And while Jon Arryn negotiated with the great families of the realm, trying to restore peace and order under Robert’s leadership, Ned concentrated on cleaning up King’s Landing.

Robert was still in mourning. He helped Jon where he could, but his depression was deep. Thankfully, he still had time to pull himself out of it. The heads of the major families would only be arriving for the wedding, all except Prince Doran, whose health was declining and was sending his brother Oberyn, and Hoster Tully, whose lands had been ravaged by the fighting. Jon and Ned would need Robert to lay on the charm thick when those important men arrived.

The goldcloaks were currently Ned’s major concern. Their ranks had been thinned considerably during the fighting, just as the fighting had driven normally law-abiding men and women to commit crimes. There was a veritable mountain of cases the remaining officers had to get through. Restoring order was not a simple business.

Another set of reports detailed the damage to the markets, the harbour, and the walls. None of it was as bad as it could have been if there had been an extended siege, and repairs had begun in his absence, but they had all been thoroughly pillaged during the Sack. Ned would have to speak to Jon Arryn about obtaining a loan. Ironically, the most likely source of coin would be Tywin Lannister.

And, of course, there was the bloody wedding.

Everything Ned knew about preparing for weddings could fit in a lady’s thimble with room left over. At his own wedding, Catelyn had worn a beautiful blue dress and a fine maiden’s cloak, she had held a bouquet of unfamiliar flowers, and Lord Hoster had served them all a fine meal. Ned didn’t know what else was needed. But royal weddings were apparently more complicated, and required Ned to deal with everything from mass orders of bunting to arrangements to keep the roads clear as Lady Cersei’s entourage entered the city. The seating arrangements alone were like to take years off Ned’s life.

With all that happening, he hadn’t been able to make the time to see his young ward. Rhaenys Targaryen was in the care of two septas in lieu of family; she was sleeping poorly, eating little, and speaking not at all. She was scared of armoured men and hardly venturing out of her rooms.

Ned didn’t know what he could do for her beyond ensuring her safety.

A solution to that problem presented itself to him late one night as he stopped by to visit young Jon (another child he had spent precious little time with), only to find Wylla had put him down to sleep and taken the opportunity for sleep herself – and Rhaenys had snuck in to see the boy.

She was singing quietly to him, in fact. She couldn’t carry a tune and she clearly couldn’t remember the words, but she was trying to sing a lullaby.

He wondered if the girl had watched her mother sing for her brother – her _other_ brother. The murdered one, not the half-brother she didn’t know she had.

Rhaenys stopped as soon as she noticed there was someone else in the room. Her eyes darted to the sword Ned was wearing and she shrank back against the cradle. Of course this would happen the night he was wearing a sword – an inspection beyond the walls turned into dinner at a guild turned into a disciplinary matter he had to attend to, and he hadn’t been in the Keep since breakfast. Rhaenys, he noticed, kept herself carefully between him and Jon, and his heart almost broke for the poor girl. He stayed back, unbuckled the scabbard and propped it against the wall, then approached with his hands open.

She kicked him in the shin and screamed.

Wylla woke with a start. Jon started to cry. Ned cursed.

“It’s all right,” he assured poor Wylla, who had been startled so rudely awake. “Go find her septa. It’s about time Rhaenys and I talked.” He picked up Jon to try and soothe him, and went to sit down in the study. Rhaenys followed him. He indicated that she should take the chair next to his.

“You are not to kick me again,” he told her sternly. “You are not to attack anyone who isn’t attacking you.” Though he understood why she would be so scared, best to nip this in the bud.

Rhaenys nodded. She was crying too, he realised, tears sliding silently down her face. “m’sorry,” she mumbled, the first spoken words he had heard from her.

“I am Eddard Stark,” he said, and her head jerked up sharply in recognition. She knew his name, but not his face. He _had_ been terribly negligent. It had to stop right now. “This is Jon. Would you like to hold him?” She nodded, and he oh-so-carefully passed Jon over. Jon, not a babe who cried overmuch, did not object. Rhaenys was careful to support his head without being told, and once more Ned was reminded that she had very recently lost a brother not so much older than the infant she held, and her mother as well. Not so long before that, her father had died.

Satisfied that she would not drop Jon, Ned continued. “We will be travelling to my home two days after King Robert’s wedding.” He watched for an indication that the girl understood. He received none. Jon fussed a little in Rhaenys’ arms as a few tears dripped from her chin onto his face. “It will be a long journey. Likely about a month.”

Was it his imagination, or were her tears slowing?

“Do you _want_ to leave?” he asked her.

She nodded.

“Then do not worry,” Ned said quietly. “We will be gone in a week, and you will not have to return here until you are a woman grown.”

That did it. Rhaenys’ tears stopped almost completely, and she looked relieved. “It is time for you to go back to bed,” Ned decided, noticing the deep shadows under her brown eyes. “Give Jon back to me, please.” The girl complied. “If you wish to visit him, you should ask your septas and Wylla for permission. If you wish to speak to me, knock on my door if I am here, or ask your guards to bring me a message. You understand?”

“Yes, Lord Eddard,” Rhaenys said.

Ned blinked. “Goodnight, Rhaenys.”

“Goodnight, Lord Eddard.” She dipped a brief curtsey and positively fled to the door, where one of her septas – the plain young lady – was waiting. Ned wondered how Rhaenys had managed to get away long enough to find her way into Jon’s room. He was surprised enough that she had spoken to him at all. It was a start, at least.

In the meantime, Rhaenys wasn’t the only one who needed some sleep. He returned Jon to his cradle and, at long last, headed to his own bed.

 

\---

 

As the party approached King’s Landing, Jaime’s mood sunk, just as it had risen on the way to Casterly Rock. He’d done a good job avoiding it, but the fact remained: within a few days, Cersei would be married to another man, and Jaime would be on his way north.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Cersei told him in one of their very few moments alone on the journey along the Goldroad. They dared not touch, for it was too easy to get caught. There was no privacy in travel. “You always knew I’d have to wed.”

“I wanted you to wed _me_ ,” he said.

“Then you shouldn’t have accepted that pretty white cloak,” she sniffed, and refused to listen to his reminders that it had been _her_ plan in the first place, and he’d accepted in part to avoid his own wedding. Gods, but she was beautiful even when she was angry with him.

He’d leave the Kingsguard for her, still, if she would only agree to run with him and be his wife. She wouldn’t, though, and if Cersei could be Queen and keep him, Jaime could keep her and the Kingsguard both.

Jaime dropped back to ride with Ser Barristan after that. “It’s looking much improved around here,” the older knight said approvingly, looking around at the replanting that had taken place since they left. “There’ll be crops aplenty come winter.”

“Spoken like a Stark,” Jaime snorted. “Winter is coming. As far as they’re concerned, winter is coming the moment it ends. I’ll have enough of that in the next few years, thank you.”

“Someone has to remember. I’ve served with men like to forget that the sun will set.”

“Now, Ser Barristan!” Jaime laughed. “That sounds like a story.”

It was, and quite a good one, about the most spectacularly mismanaged tourney ever staged, back when Aegon the Fortunate had been king. “Fortunately, Her Grace had a sense of humour,” Ser Barristan concluded. “But they were always careful to check the royal box for spiders after that.”

“It sounds like the spiders were the least of the problems,” Jaime observed.

“Indeed,” Ser Barristan said. “We’re almost in sight of the city. Get your good cloak and the white armour on, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime went to do so, wondering at Selmy’s marked thawing of attitude towards him since his return from the Trident. Selmy hadn’t welcomed his appointment to the Kingsguard, he knew. And he’d been terribly disappointed over what (he thought) Jaime had done on the day Aerys had died. It went without saying that Selmy would be a good deal more disappointed in him if he knew what Jaime had  _actually_  done that day.

It could be as simple as the fact that Jaime was, at present, his only sworn brother. They were a Kingsguard of two, and neither of them guarding the king. The only two of Aerys’ seven to bend the knee, and the only two of that same number who had not been trusted with knowledge of Lady Lyanna’s whereabouts.

Was it a coincidence? Had Rhaegar seen something in him and Selmy that he couldn’t trust?

They stopped outside the walls for Cersei to prepare for Tywin’s little show. He’d sent them instructions. They involved Cersei riding through the city on a white mare, even though his sister was no more than adequate as a horsewoman. But, as he’d learned, his father did have an accurate view of Robert’s character. Perhaps the display would appeal to the king.

He wished Tyrion had been allowed to come. His little brother would have found this amusing too.

Jaime flanked Cersei on her ride up the hill to the Red Keep, close enough to see her knuckles white on the reins and the strain in her smile. At least the streets were clear. Up they went, up and up and up, through the town and into the Keep, where they dismounted, and into the hall where Robert Baratheon waited, perched on the Iron Throne. As one, Cersei and her guard, Jaime included, bent the knee.

Her crimson dress would be even more striking for being next to his and Selmy’s white-enamelled armour, Jaime knew, if one could ignore the horsehair on her fine skirt.

They knelt for a long moment, before Robert descended from the throne and drew Cersei to her feet.

After that it was just a lot of talking.

“He’s comelier than I expected,” Cersei said to him that night.

“Are you trying to make me jealous?” he demanded.

“Yes,” his sister admitted, then, “Come here.”

The next morning, the day before the wedding, he went to check on Rhaenys. Technically, he wasn’t on her detail again until the day after the wedding, but he felt obliged to look in on her. Maybe she’d had a full night’s sleep too.

“She has not,” Septa Jenny told him when he asked. “She is, however, speaking again.”

“Oh? And how was this miracle achieved?”

“She snuck into Lord Stark’s room a few nights ago to see his bastard son,” the septa sighed. Jaime hadn’t even known Stark _had_ a bastard son, let alone that he was keeping the child in the castle. “Lord Stark was returning late from a meeting and surprised her. She mistook him for an intruder, screamed, and kicked him in the shins.”

Jaime couldn’t help it. He started to laugh, just imagining the look of consternation that must have crossed the northern lord’s stony face. Septa Jenny was rather less amused. “I’m sorry,” he said, dampening his mirth. “How is she today?”

“Well. Come in and see her if you like, ser.”

Rhaenys was working with slate and chalk, carefully sounding out words as she went. There was something Jaime didn’t miss from his childhood. To his very great surprise, Rhaenys smiled a little when she saw him. “Hello, Ser Jaime,” she said.

He kept a straight face, as though he were dealing with Tyrion at his most enthusiastic. “Lady Rhaenys,” he replied, and inclined his head gravely.

It was the right response – her smile widened just a bit more. She really was a pretty little girl, with her mother’s colouring and heart-shaped face. There was only a little bit of Rhaegar in her, in the shape of her eyes and chin. “I’m going to Winterfell,” she informed him. She sounded almost cheerful.

“I know,” he replied. “I’m going with you.”

“Oh,” she said, brow wrinkling in surprise. “That’s good. Why?”

 _Because the King wants you to marry his son and secure the throne for his line, and you have to be alive to do that_. That phrasing seemed less than ideal. Jaime looked at the septa for help.

“He’s going to make sure you don’t get hurt,” Septa Jenny said, and Jaime breathed a sigh of relief. “Come now, dear, you have lessons to do and Ser Jaime’s sister is wedding the king tomorrow. I’m sure he’s needed for the preparations. You’ll have plenty of time to talk to Ser Jaime on your trip north." 

“All right,” Rhaenys agreed, though her eyes were sad. “Goodbye, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime gave her a full bow this time. “Until after the wedding, my lady.” He was rewarded with another tiny smile as Septa Jenny ushered him out and shut the door pointedly behind him. He started to laugh again, and did so all the way to the training yard.

As it turned out, his quick visit with Rhaenys was the high point of his day. Wedding preparations were awfully tedious. _Endless_ hours of working out who stood where and how long things took to say. It was a damned good thing only one of his siblings would be marrying into royalty. Even that night, he couldn’t visit Cersei, not with the guards on the door. By rights _he_ should be guarding her door.

The day of the wedding dawned overcast, but Jaime had lived in King’s Landing long enough to know that this sort of cloud would clear by mid-morning. He knocked on Cersei’s door as soon as he dared, before the sun was fully over the horizon.

His sister opened the door and smiled to see him there. “You may go, sers,” she told her guards. “I wish to speak with my brother privily. I will be perfectly safe with him.” Tired and close enough to the end of their shift as made no difference, they left for a meal and a rest.

Jaime didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything or anyone but Cersei right now.

They fucked as long as they dared, before Cersei called a halt. “We’re expected for breakfast,” she reminded him. “The gifts, remember?”

“Come away with me,” he said instead. “I’ll make you a Queen in any of the Free Cities you like.”

She looked at him as if he were mad. Even Jaime had to admit that it was too late for running away. They’d need more than a few hours’ head start from their father’s wrath.

They went down to breakfast together, Jaime offering her a brotherly arm, and helped her into her seat next to Robert at the high table. She smiled prettily up at him and ignored him for the rest of the meal, intent on charming her soon-to-be-husband. Jaime debated the merits of killing him, too, but decided against it.

He’d be gone soon. He wouldn’t have to see Cersei with another man for long.

 

\---

 

Ned wished he could be happier about his friend’s marriage. Robert had reconciled himself to the match with good grace, at least. It was true; Tywin Lannister’s daughter was strikingly beautiful. But Ned disliked her smile, so like her twin’s. He liked the Lannister influence over the realm even less.

Still, too late now. The Lannisters were Robert’s goodfamily as of an hour ago. He hoped their match would work out better than he feared.

He had another letter from Catelyn in his pocket now; the third she’d sent him. _I was sorry to hear of your sister’s death_ , she had written. _I will pray for her soul and for you. The gods have been cruel to strip you of so much of your family, and in time I hope they will be kind and ease your pain._ He didn’t share his wife’s gods, but it had indeed comforted him to know that she was thinking of him. She had also written that she was perfectly content to stay in Riverrun for the next few months, for she understood his duty to Robert must take precedence to her for now.

And, of course, the most welcome words of all: _Robb is hale and hearty._ Catelyn added: _Our extended separation might be necessary, but I wish you could be here to see him grow._

He would _make_ the time to write her a reply before he left King’s Landing, he swore to himself. He rather suspected he had been lucky to wed her, and was not looking forward to telling her of Jon Snow and his decisions regarding the boy’s upbringing. That would likely put an end to her warm words to him. 

First he had a reception to attend, though. He put on a new grey-and-white doublet (he had unaccountably neglected to pack attire suitable for a wedding upon leaving Riverrun), feeling very much as though he was armouring himself for battle again. It might well be so; the final seating arrangements had him sitting next to Oberyn Martell. Jon had been kind and seated him in a less distinguished place at the table so he wouldn’t be next to Tywin Lannister. The Hand of the King had not been able to save himself – he and poor Lysa, recently arrived from Riverrun, were next to Mace Tyrell. Undoubtedly one of the three would enjoy the umpteenth retelling of the southernmost campaigns.

Appropriately dressed, Ned went to find Robert. “Congratulations, your grace,” he said when the guards had waved him through. “Long life and happiness to you and your new wife.”

“Yes, yes,” Robert said gloomily. “Congratulations to me.”

The king was drinking. He wasn’t drunk yet, but Ned knew his friend. Robert would be drinking from now until the bedding, and go to his wife all but insensate. “Perhaps some moderation?” Ned suggested. “Your wife won’t like it if you are incapable of bedding her this evening.”

“Never fear, Ned!” Robert managed a half-hearted laugh. “Cersei is beautiful enough that won’t be a problem.” He poured himself another goblet of wine, and called for another, for Ned. “What would Lyanna have thought of all this?”

“She’d have hated it,” he said honestly, accepting the wine but not drinking any. “To much fuss, not enough fresh air.”

“A woman after my own heart,” Robert sighed. “I always thought I’d wed at Storm’s End. On the ramparts maybe, so my bride and I could look over Shipbreaker Bay after we said our vows and feel the wind in our hair.”

Sometimes Robert could be a surprisingly romantic soul. It never failed to surprise Ned, even though he knew his friend was more than capable of cajoling women into his bed and leaving them sighing after him. “That, she probably would have liked,” Ned had to admit. “But it was not to be, Robert. Let her go. You have a wife to attend to, and she is not Lyanna.”

“Don’t I know it.” Robert drained his goblet. “Her Grace will be done changing into her new dress soon. You go ahead, Ned. See if you can find a woman you like. One of us should bed a lady of their choice tonight.”

Ned declined to point out that he too was wed, and left Robert to his misery.

Guests were circling the yard of the Keep cautiously. Recently, many of them had been warring against each other. It put a damper on the social aspect of the event. Ned sorely wanted for Brandon, or even Catelyn – as briefly as he’d known her, he recalled her self-possession at their own wedding and thought it would be of use here. As it were, he hoped Robert would hurry up. His knack for smoothing differences over was needed. Ned engaged in a brief, tense, conversation with Lord Redwyne about Ironborn raids, spoke more warmly to Bronze Yohn and the Blackfish, and entered the hall for the meal.

Prince Oberyn of Dorne slid into his seat next to Ned just before Robert and his new queen were due to enter the hall, skirting the very edge of insult. He looked much as he had nearly two years ago, when he’d danced with half the ladies at Harrenhal, tall and thin and above all _sharp_. His hairline had receded a touch, perhaps. And he was wearing mourning black to a wedding.

Ned could not truly fault him.

The younger prince of Dorne did not turn to speak to Ned until well into the fourth course of seven, when guests were starting to get in their cups. “I am told my family have you to thank for the return of my nephew’s bones.”

It was to be light and pleasant conversation, then. “In truth it was your sister’s doing,” Ned told him. “To be interred with her son in your crypts was her final request.” And she had refused milk of the poppy until she had been understood. Ned had only honoured that request.

Aerys’ bones, Jon Arryn had told him, had been thrown into the Blackwater.

“Still, on behalf of my family, I thank you.” Prince Oberyn’s eyes glittered, perhaps with tears, perhaps with suppressed malice. “I am sure you understand our grief, having recently lost your own sister.”

“Yes.”

“My condolences. And, of course, you are now my niece’s guardian.”

“It was not my decision,” Ned said. He did not want to speak to this man. Not about his sister, not about Princess Elia, and not about Rhaegar’s children. Such matters were best left far behind him, back in the mountains of Dorne. “Nevertheless, I have been given the responsibility and will do my utmost to provide for her appropriately.” 

Oberyn Martell met his angry gaze. “You mistake my meaning, Lord Stark. Of course my brother Doran would rather have custody of Lady Rhaenys, and bring her up beside her cousins. He also knows this to be impossible in the current political climate. On the contrary, we are glad it is you with whom Rhaenys will be residing, and not…others.”

He meant Lannisters. Naturally he picked the occasion of Tywin Lannister’s daughter becoming Queen of the Seven Kingdoms to discuss this matter with Ned. Lord Tywin himself was sitting not three seats away, by all the gods. Truly, Ned loathed southron politics.

“Of course, we have a few concerns about her security.” At this, Prince Oberyn’s eyes slid in the direction of Jaime Lannister, off duty and laughing along with some western knights. “Ser Jaime’s defence of my niece notwithstanding, his, ah, negligence with Aerys is well known.”

“Ser Jaime will not be the sole man under arms in Winterfell,” Ned said coolly. “The North has few knights because few in my lands follow the Seven, not because we are incapable of valour.”

“Which leads me to another question,” the man said, smooth as silk, moving away from his previous insult. “Will you raise her in the faith?”

“I have engaged a septa for her, yes,” Ned replied. “Not one of the ones charged with her care at present, neither of whom were able to move to Winterfell in the long term. My lady wife keeps the Seven as well. If Lady Rhaenys desires to keep the Seven, she will be able to.”

Prince Oberyn took a sip of wine, watching Ned carefully over the rim of his goblet. “Might I see her?” he asked at length.

“We leave for Winterfell in two days. If you would like to visit your niece, it must be tomorrow.”

“And at Winterfell?”

That was a different matter, but one did not lightly turn away such a powerful man from one’s home. “I would ask for some notice beforehand, so I might receive you properly.” _And ask Jon Arryn if you and your brother have been plotting anything recently._

Oberyn Martell laughed. “Never fear, Lord Stark,” he said. “Prince Doran and I will be honest with you and, I hope, we are transparent in our intentions. All of us want what is best for Rhaenys.”

And he did not speak to Ned again for the rest of the evening, which did nothing to set him at ease.

The reception drew to a close in the small hours of the morning. Ned felt like he might be the only man in King’s Landing who wasn’t drunk. Robert certainly had been, though not too drunk to banter with the young ladies who had undressed him when it came time for the bedding. As Robert’s friend, he had done his part and helped remove a sleeve of Cersei Lannister’s fine dress. He had tried to bandy words with her too, but her cold smile gave him pause.

 _She looked like she might tear my throat out if I said another word to her_.

But he had survived. The remaining preparations for his departure were not burdensome. True to his word, Oberyn Martell visited his niece. Ned left him to it while he said his farewells to Robert and to Jon Arryn.

At long last, he mounted his horse in the courtyard of the Red Keep.

The company of men he had remaining to him were ready to go. Howland Reed, ever faithful, had delayed his own return to Greywater Watch. Jon Snow and Rhaenys Targaryen were in a carriage with Wylla and Rhaenys’ new septa, a woman named Mordane. The silent sisters, with Lyanna’s bones, were there. At the back of the party, Jaime Lannister, in white armour as well as a white cloak, was having a few final words with Lord Commander Selmy. It must have been serious, Ned thought sourly, because the younger man’s nigh-ubiquitous smirk was not in evidence.

That was everyone. Finally. He could go home.

“Move out!” he ordered. “To Winterfell!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I didn't believe people when they said that comments and kudos were like delicious candy. But I have seen the light. Comments and kudos are indeed like delicious candy. Thank you, everyone, I appreciate it.


	3. Fish Out of Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Stark returns to Winterfell, and several southerners try to make it their home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No chapter warnings this time that my tags and prior warnings don't already cover, I think. Carry on!

The Neck, Jaime decided, had to be the most dismal part of the Seven Kingdoms. Swamp, swamp and more swamp, broken up by the occasional bog or marsh. He had bug bites on his bug bites. So did everyone but Reed. The crannogman was too polite to look as if he was enjoying a joke at their expense, so Jaime couldn’t even enjoy being cross at him in return.

Reed _did_ , however, give Septa Mordane a jar of salve for said bites effective enough that Rhaenys stopped whining almost immediately upon being treated. Even Stark’s bastard stopped fussing. For that and that alone, Jaime took back every nasty thought he had ever had about any crannogman whatsoever. Not that he’d met any crannogman other than Reed.

“You’ll meet more when we stop at Greywater Watch,” Reed said serenely, when Jaime expressed both sentiments to him. “Not all of them as patient as me. Your mouth will get you in trouble one day, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime grinned. “Then it’s a good thing I decided to keep it shut for once.”

“Oh, yes. Even I’ve considered throwing you into the fens if it would get you to keep quiet.”

Jaime rapped on the side of the carriage he’d been keeping pace with, where he could hear a certain someone complaining again about being bored. “You hear that, Lady Rhaenys?” he called through the window. “Lord Reed is threatening to throw me into the fens if I misbehave! He’ll do it to you too, if you keep bothering your septa.”

Rhaenys poked her head out the window. “He would not!” she said indignantly.

“Oh yes he would,” Jaime told her. “Look at him. He’s serious. He’ll throw you into a bog and you’ll get mud all over your dress and weeds in your hair. We’ll have to tell Lord Stark, and then he won’t let you play with the babe.”

Rhaenys looked at Reed, sizing him up. Reed kept a straight face. Eventually she decided it wasn’t worth the risk and sat back down quietly. The needlework lesson carried on.

Just over two weeks out from King’s Landing, Rhaenys was doing much better. The crying at odd moments had stopped almost entirely, and she was even sleeping some nights through. It was the leaving and the bastard that had done it, Jaime thought. Rhaenys had latched on to Stark’s bastard son as a replacement for her dead brother, and could scarcely be persuaded to leave him with people she didn’t recognise.

She was in for some heartbreak when Lord Reed left them. Jaime was fairly certain that Lord Stark was having the boy fostered at Greywater Watch. On the other hand, nobody had any reason to want little Snow dead. Rhaenys would have to be content with that.

“We’ll be at Greywater Watch this evening,” Reed informed him, confirming his suspicion that Reed’s drifting through the ranks today had been him saying his goodbyes privately. Why Reed wanted to talk to him remained a mystery. On the few occasions Jaime had spoken to him on the ride up, he’d left feeling like the crannogman was sizing him up. “The keep is on its way to meet us. Your charge will have an opportunity to stretch her legs then.”

_Blessed relief!_ was his first thought. But then Jaime raised his eyebrows. _The keep is coming to meet us?_ Reed laughed aloud, something Jaime had seldom heard him do. “You’ll see, Ser Jaime.” He gathered up his reins, still awkward on a horse even after what had to be more than a year of campaigning. “If you’ll pray excuse me…” And he rode off to speak to Lord Stark.

So, he would be visiting one of the infamous moving castles of the crannogmen. Jaime had only heard a little bit about them, in history lessons mostly. Few men had been fool enough to wage a campaign in the Neck in recent years. _I wonder if Tyrion would know more. Wouldn’t he be jealous?_

That evening, as he watched the keep melt out of the mists, he could confirm that thought. Yes, Tyrion would be jealous indeed.

Trees grew over the roof of Greywater Watch, forming parts of the outer walls, until it looked like nothing so much as one of the hillocks they had seen as the Kingsroad passed through the marshes. And, of course, it moved. Jaime couldn’t see how.

The lady who greeted them at the gates was not dressed like any lady Jaime had seen before, but wore breeches like a man. Not that anyone would mistake her for such; slight as Jyana Reed was, she had a woman’s shape. Her husband’s face lit up when she presented him with his daughter, a girl who looked to be about a year old. No infant, certainly. Probably born shortly after the rebellion started. Jaime glanced at the usually impassive Lord Stark and briefly glimpsed guilt written all over his face, undoubtedly for keeping his friend from his child so long.

Jaime was on duty for the feast that evening, as Rhaenys had been judged old enough and well behaved enough to attend. Stark had put his foot down, in fact. “You will show proper courtesy to Lord Reed before we depart,” he had ordered, and his stern expression would have cowed more than a small girl. If Stark ever had any daughters, Jaime pitied the men who tried to court them.

So Rhaenys pulled on the nicest dress she’d brought, fine purple wool that would stand out amongst all the brown and green the women of the crannogs favoured, checked to make sure that Stark’s bastard was safe in the nursery with Reed’s daughter and their nurses, and went to dinner.

She coped well with it, better than Jaime had thought she might, with so many armed and unfamiliar men around. Rhaenys sat still and smiled nicely at the aged Reed bannermen sitting next to her, and even sampled the lizard-lion served to her. Jaime did his job, too, hovering always within the length of his sword, ready to throw her behind him in the (extremely unlikely) event an assassin threatened here in the heart of Greywater Watch. All present and correct, and useless as nipples on a breastplate – crannogmen fought with poisoned weapons, including darts.

Lord Stark excused his ward from the table quite early in the evening. So Jaime, who knew himself to be one of the finest jousts and best swordsmen in Westeros, trailed a sleepy child out of a minor lord’s hall, to see she was put to bed properly. _Duty calls._

“That wasn’t so bad,” Rhaenys mused.

“Even the lizard-lion?” asked Jaime, who hadn’t tried any.

“I liked the duck better.”

They found their way to the room Rhaenys would be staying in that night without difficulty. Greywater Watch was not a large keep. Before bidding her goodnight, Jaime said to her, without thinking, “You did well tonight, princess.”

Rhaenys stopped in her tracks. “Don’t want to be a princess,” she mumbled, directing her words to the floor rather than him.

Never in his life had Jaime heard such a thing. Granted, Cersei had been the only girl Jaime had ever known well, but from about eight or nine, not all that much older than the girl in front of him, she had been insistent that she would be queen one day. That, and Jaime, had been all she ever wanted. “How about a queen?” he asked.

Rhaenys shook her head, and started to cry. Jaime had thought she was done with that sort of thing. “I want mama back,” she sobbed. “I want mama back.”

And Jaime, skilled knight and the youngest man to ever wear Kingsguard white, defender of King’s Landing and of Targaryen princesses, could do nothing to stop her tears.

\---

The party finally approached Winterfell on a day where sleet and heavy rain limited their vision dramatically, so Ned had not the pleasure of watching his home slowly come into view. Instead, he had the joys of cold water and half-melted ice dripping off his helm and into his eyes. He found he could stand it easily. Winterfell, with its hot springs and its hearth fires, was very close now. This was but a warm spring rain.

They had stayed the night at Castle Cerwyn, guests of Lord Medger, and Ned had barely been able to sleep for anticipation. He knew the Cerwyn lands well from his childhood. They were the first lands outside of Winterfell’s that his father had trusted him to ride to. The one thing that felt wrong was Lord Medger calling him “Lord Stark” and offering him the seat of honour at dinner. For all Ned might have held that position for nearly two years, now that he was back in the North he fought off the urge to laugh and say _Lord Stark is my father, and Brandon will be Lord Stark after him._

All this should not be his. Ned felt almost as much an imposter as he had back at the beginning, when he’d sat in his father’s chair to announce to his father’s bannermen they were going to war.

When the gates of Winterfell were finally opened to him, all he felt was nervous. Benjen – it could only be Benjen, so much taller than when Ned had ridden away – and Vayon Poole were the only ones waiting in the courtyard for them, the weather being too inclement for the formalities. Too much time in freezing rain could cause a fatal chill if left unattended, even in the midst of spring. Northerners, of all men, knew when not to fight the North. “Winterfell is yours, my lord,” Benjen said. “Gods, Ned. You’re back at last.”

Ned accepted his only remaining sibling’s embrace. “And not to leave again for a long time, I hope,” he said.

Vayon Poole stepped forward. He, too, looked considerably older than he had when Ned had left. “Welcome home, Lord Stark.”

“Thank you,” Ned replied, mouth dry. “We are all in need of food and warm baths. Vayon, please tell me they’re both ready.”

“The springs are as hot as ever,” the steward said as stableboys appeared to take the horses. Maester Luwin and Rodrik Cassel were waiting in the entrance hall. “As for the meal, we expected you an hour hence. It will be a wait.”

“That will be fine,” Ned decided. He looked over the party that had stayed on. Some of them were Umber men, who would need to continue on their own journeys shortly – though not before they had the hospitality of Winterfell. Three days of it, at least. Some of them were his own men, returned at last to their homes and families and deserving of a celebration. And some of them…

He saw Jaime Lannister strip a glove off and press his hand to a wall, obviously surprised at its warmth. Rhaenys Targaryen stood close behind him, as if to hide under his cloak. Septa Mordane, a woman of considerable self-possession, waited patiently to be introduced. And Jon Snow, woken by the move from carriage to castle, surveyed his surroundings from Wylla’s arms with solemn infant scrutiny.

…some of them were now members of his household, and should be welcomed appropriately.

“May I present Lady Rhaenys Targaryen of Dragonstone,” Ned said to Benjen and the three senior members of Winterfell’s staff, “and Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, here for her protection. Her ladyship will be staying here until she is wed.”

Rhaenys stepped away from Ser Jaime and ducked a perfect curtsey. “I am very pleased to meet you, my lords,” she said. Ser Jaime bowed his head.

“This is Septa Mordane,” Ned continued. “She will be in charge of Lady Rhaenys’ education while she is here at Winterfell.” Courtesies were similarly exchanged.

Finally, one of the moments Ned had been dreading. “And this is my son Jon,” he said. “Jon will be raised here in Winterfell.” None of these men (and Benjen was a man now, how odd a thought that was) were fools. They knew that Jon could not be Lady Catelyn’s son, and hence a bastard by the name of Snow. Maester Luwin and Vayon Poole kept straight faces at that announcement, but Rodrik Cassel’s eyebrows climbed up to his hairline and Benjen’s eyes were very wide.

It was about as positive a response as he could have hoped for. They did not protest, nor deny his right, nor even point out that his lady wife might look on the decision unfavourably. Not even Benjen.

Those men had known and loved Lya, though they had not been able to directly join the fight to reclaim her, and might still have welcomed her son to her home. And Ned had to lie to them. And, he realised, it was growing easier to say the dishonest words that shamed him and spared his nephew. “Please have everyone shown to their rooms,” he ordered, not wanting to discuss Jon any further. Especially not with Ben, who might be able to tell the lie. Ben, who was just as much Jon’s uncle as Ned himself was.

Ned left once the order was given, but he did not go to his rooms – neither the cell he had occupied as a boy, nor the suite he was entitled to as Lord of Winterfell and that he still thought of as his father’s rooms. Still cold and wet from the ride, Ned sought out what he needed most.

He went to the godswood.

It had not changed in his absence. Ned thought it would never change. It had been here before Winterfell, and would be there even if Winterfell should fall. It took a long time for rain to fall through the canopy of the godswood here, but fall through it eventually did. Water dripped through the leaves as Ned walked the familiar route to the central grove, filling the usually still forest with unexpected sound and unpredictable movement.

In the centre – the pool, and the heart tree. The blood-red leaves trembled in the rain, and drops periodically broke the surface of the pool. More than ever, Ned had the sense that the tree’s carved face was watching him. Waiting for him to speak.

Ned knelt.

“I pray the gods forgive me for all that I have done,” he said. The words seemed to die in the air around him, carrying no further than the branches of the heart tree extended. “And for all that I will have to do.”

He stayed for a few minutes longer in silence, but he was no longer the second son of the Lord of Winterfell, and he had duties to attend to.

The celebrations, which lasted long into the evening, felt hollow to Ned. _Father is dead. Brandon is dead. Lya is dead._ He thought he understood a bit of how Robert had felt at the wedding. Seated on his right, Benjen did not seem to be deriving much joy from the proceedings either. “I want to take the black,” he told Ned, mid-meal.

Fear lanced through Ned’s heart – _was he to lose all his family?_ – but he ruthlessly suppressed it. Service in the Night’s Watch was a noble path. Benjen was a man grown and had obviously come to know his own mind in Ned’s absence. He could not, and should not, deny his brother this.

“You have my blessing,” Ned replied. Their father would have given it readily. But, because he did not want to see his brother ride away so soon, he asked, “Will you stay to see your other nephew arrive first?”

“Of course.” Ben smiled. If it was a little forced, Ned pretended not to notice. “Besides, you’ve been away so long, you’re likely to forget your way to Father’s – to your solar. I couldn’t possibly leave you alone before you remembered.”

They kept their conversation light after that. They would have time to grieve their lost family together later, but tonight was at least supposed to be a celebration.

After it was over, Ned went to his solar and called for paper, quill and ink. _May the gods forgive me for all that I will have to do._ He started to write.

\---

If he had to do this for much longer, Jaime was going to kill someone. He was thoroughly convinced of it.

It wasn’t that he disliked Rhaenys, quite the reverse. She was a sweet girl, even if she drove him to distraction sometimes. So did Tyrion, and Jaime liked his brother quite a lot. It was the monotony. Winterfell was a far safer place than the Red Keep. The walls were high, the scheming courtiers non-existent, and Stark’s guardsmen were loyal. (The irony of Jaime judging the loyalty of guards did not fail to strike him.) Every day, he stood at the door while Rhaenys ate, did her lessons, and then played quietly. Usually with her doll, sometimes with one of the castle’s many cats. Sometimes she went exploring; that was Jaime’s favourite. It didn’t involve standing and looking down empty corridors for any sign of a threat that didn’t exist.

No, it was Winterfell itself that felt hostile. The godswood, for instance. It was nothing like the one at Casterly Rock or the Red Keep. It was dark in there, all twisted uncut brush and ancient trees. Rhaenys only just got out of sight of the nearest wall before bolting back to the safer paths, and Jaime was quite happy to follow her, not that he would ever admit it.

The crypts were even worse, when they visited them late one afternoon. Jaime had once thought the dragon skulls on the walls of the throne room were eerie; the dragons had nothing on the long line of the old Lords of Winterfell.

_Get out_ , their eyes seemed to say to him. _Liar and murderer. Oathbreaker and Kingslayer. This is a place for Starks._

He wondered if his father would find this place disturbing.

Jaime stood up straighter. He’d done the right thing. What would a bunch of old statues know about it, anyway?

Rhaenys, however, wasn’t bothered by the stares of the stone lords at all, and walked past all the tombs, holding her lantern high, reading the engraved names and admiring the carved direwolves. She stopped dead at the very newest statue, carefully sounding out the name. “This is the lady mama said father liked,” she said, surprised.

“It is,” Jaime agreed, not sure what Princess Elia had told her daughter or what he himself should say. “She was Lord Stark’s sister.” His attention was stuck on the other two statues – a pair of men whose execution he had witnessed. He had heard Rickard Stark’s screams and seen Brandon Stark’s face blackened in death. He had thought of Cersei’s skin on his and wished to be anywhere else but where he had stood, defending the king.

“She looks sad.”

Jaime dragged his eyes away, to the likeness of Lyanna Stark. In stone she was not such a beautiful woman, nowhere near as beautiful as Cersei, and he was sure he wasn’t the only one who would say that. Perhaps Lady Lyanna had looked different in life, with a smile on her face. She had certainly been well-loved. Even now, undoubtedly left by her surviving brothers, there were fresh flowers at her feet – the famous blue roses of Winterfell. “She’s dead,” Jaime pointed out, more harshly than he’d intended. “We should leave her to her rest.”

“Did my father like Lady Lyanna more than he liked my mama?” Rhaenys asked him on their way out.

“I don’t know,” Jaime said. “I only knew your father a little.” That, and nobody seemed to know what Rhaegar had been thinking when he took Lyanna Stark from Winterfell. The only man who might have been able to answer that was Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Arthur was months dead.

Rhaenys seemed to accept that answer for now, but Jaime suspected she’d ask again. Maybe, if she was feeling very brave, she’d ask Lord Stark. As her guardian, he was the one who should be answering questions like that anyway.

It was also lonely for the girl. There weren’t any other noble girls around her age at Winterfell. While she still had Stark’s bastard to coddle (to Jaime’s disbelief), it wasn’t the same as having a friend her own age. Winterfell was short on female presence full stop, actually, and what gossip Jaime dug up said it had been so for a long time. Lord Rickard’s wife died more than ten years ago and Lord Rickard had never remarried. For all his only daughter Lyanna had loved flowers and songs, her true passions had been horses and racing; everyone agreed no woman ever rode a horse better, and few men either.

Winterfell, Jaime thought, was a strange sort of place to raise a little nobly born girl.

For his part, Jaime was a little better off. He missed Cersei, every night, and usually first thing in the morning too. But at least he didn’t want for people to speak to or spend time with. Northerners liked to share war stories as much as southerners did. Better still, the stories they told were of wildling forces and raids, which Jaime had never heard anything about before. He wondered if he’d get to see any in action.

Probably not, because he was stuck guarding a small child from figments of Robert Baratheon’s imagination. It really was beyond frustrating.

But he did it anyway, one day after another. He was a knight of the Kingsguard (even if he’d killed the last king and bent the knee to his replacement), and knights of the Kingsguard did not flee.

\---

The letter had made Catelyn smile. _I have returned safely to Winterfell_ , Lord Stark had written. _It would please me if you would make arrangements to join me._

He was not a wordsmith, her lord husband. The letters he’d sent her since their wedding – of which this was the fourth – had all been that terse. So too had been Eddard Stark in person. Catelyn thought he was more scared of her than anything, so she set out to ease those fears in her own letters. Though he had not been the man she expected to marry, she was bound and determined to be a good wife to him.

So far, she was optimistic. Two letters from him within the space of little more than a month, one written upon his departure from King’s Landing, the other upon his return to Winterfell. At the very least, he did not want her to worry.

She made the arrangements for travel with all speed. Her father had been exceptionally busy, but had delayed a trip down the Red Fork to Pinkmaiden in order to see her off. Edmure had been distraught, just as he was when Lysa had departed for King’s Landing weeks before. Riverrun felt empty to her without Lysa and Petyr (who, she supposed, she would never see again) and with Father so busy; it would be worse for Edmure when she and Robb left.

The trip north through the Riverlands turned out to be neither easy nor pleasant. The heaviest fighting of the war had been to the south of Riverrun, but there were still pillaged lands, unburied bodies, and gangs of recently demobbed soldiers away from the Kingsroad. They passed Oldstones and paid a courtesy call at Seagard, where Lord Jason was shoring up his defences against Ironborn raids. Quite unfortunately, that also meant crossing the Green Fork at the Twins, and a long and painful supper with Lord Walder. Surely, Catelyn thought as she listened to Walder Frey’s barbed comments about Lysa’s hastily-arranged marriage to the far older Jon Arryn, surely he would die soon. The man was well past seventy.

They turned onto the Kingsroad at the Neck, and were glad for the safety of the wide, well-maintained road as they travelled through the swamps. It was here that trepidation started to bubble in Catelyn’s gut. These were her husband’s lands. She’d learned the names and heraldry of many of the northern houses years before, when she had been betrothed to Brandon, but she _knew_ none of them.

The cold was an unpleasant shock. She had known the North would be cold, but she had not expected snowfall on an otherwise fine spring day. But she wrapped Robb up warm and tried to get used to it. This was going to be her home now, and it would get far colder than this.

_Winter is coming._ The words of her husband’s house. Catelyn shivered, then reminded herself it was springtime. Winter, if the gods willed, would be a few years off yet.

Catelyn Stark arrived at Winterfell on a sunny spring afternoon with a bitingly cold northwesterly breeze just starting to bring in storm clouds. The household had turned out to greet her and the little heir to Winterfell. Her husband stood slightly apart from everyone in the centre of the courtyard, his expression just as serious as the last time she’d seen his face. Not even a smile, to see her again. How unlike Brandon he was.

“My lady,” he said. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied, and accepted his help down from the carriage. Then she reached back in for the wet nurse to pass her the babe. “This is your son, Robb.”

That made him smile. She could see the softness in his face as she passed Robb to him in turn. Eddard took him without hesitation, careful to support his head. He stood there a long moment as Robb blinked his blue eyes open to look on his father for the first time. Then Robb started to cry and it was Catelyn’s turn to smile as she reclaimed her son. She did her best to soothe him as Eddard introduced the household staff – and a rather curious pair.

“This is Rhaenys Targaryen, my ward,” Eddard said when he reached them. The girl was only five or so, and very nervous-seeming. _She used to be a princess. Now she is a hostage._ “She will be living here at Winterfell. And this –”

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” Catelyn said. He was a few inches taller than he was when she had met him, a bit broader across the shoulders, and his smile a bit more cynical. It was to be expected – Catelyn had met him as a boy, and now he was a man. “Ser Jaime visited my family at Riverrun shortly before the tourney at Harrenhal,” she explained to her husband. “At the time, I thought he might become my goodbrother.”

Ser Jaime bowed. “Alas, it was not to be, my lady. I wish your sister joy in her marriage.”

“Robert has commanded him to ensure Lady Rhaenys’ safety while she is at Winterfell,” Eddard told her.

And, no doubt, to ensure that the girl never fell into the hands of Targaryen loyalists. It also kept Ser Jaime, who Catelyn had heard abandoned Aerys in the middle of the sacking of King’s Landing, well away from guarding Robert, without insulting Tywin Lannister overmuch. She wondered whose idea that had been.

“It is very good to see you again, Ser Jaime,” she said. “And a pleasure to meet you, Lady Rhaenys.” Her presence was a bigger responsibility than Catelyn had been expecting. She had thought it would be just her and Eddard and Robb for a little while, until the gods blessed them with another child, and now she had a girl whose upbringing was now her duty. She turned to Eddard then and shifted Robb higher against her shoulder. “My lord, I am sorry, but might we retire? Your son will need to be fed soon.”

“Certainly,” Eddard said, and dismissed everyone to resume their usual duties. Since her arms were full of infant, he put his hand on her back, near her waist, to guide her through the halls of her new home.

They’d scarcely touched since they made Robb together. Even now she was wearing so many layers she could not feel the warmth of his hand, just its pressure. She would welcome him to her bed tonight, she decided impulsively. Wherever in the castle her bed was. It was appropriate between a wife and her husband.

Eddard led her through the castle, past the hall, past some truly impressive glass gardens and into the very heart of Winterfell. “Would you like me to carry him, my lady?” he asked at one point. “The nursery is not terribly far, but…”

He just wanted an excuse to hold his son, Catelyn thought, so once again she handed Robb to him. She took the opportunity to remove her cloak, which she hardly needed anymore, to her surprise. When she had seen the towers of Winterfell on the horizon, she had thought that the place would be horribly draughty.

Catelyn was just thinking that this was a bit less awkward than she’d expected when Eddard opened the door to the nursery, and she saw the second cradle. The _occupied_ second cradle.

“Who is this?” she asked, moving forward to get a better look.

“My bastard son,” Eddard replied, but by then Catelyn had seen the babe and knew it for certain. There was no question whose son the boy was. Even apart from the brown hair and the long face, the grey eyes gave it away. “His name is Jon.”

“Why is he here?”

“I intend to raise him here,” Eddard said. “He is my son. He should know me, and he should know his brother.”

“And what of his mother?”

“She is unable to raise him.”

“Surely, some sort of fosterage could be arranged?”

“I have decided,” he said, and there was flat finality in his voice. “I am sorry, my lady, for the embarrassment. I know I have shamed you. But I will not be moved on this.”

_Shamed_ her? That was an understatement. The bastard boy looked to be younger than Robb, but it could not be by much. A few scant weeks. That was how long it had taken him to break his marriage vows. She wasn’t surprised that he had; they had been separated for a year. But a few _weeks_? At _most_?

And he was planning to raise the result here, in her home, with her son?

Catelyn kept her voice calm, though in truth she felt like shouting at him. “My lord, would it be possible to have the cradle moved to my own rooms? I would prefer it if Robb slept near me.”

He understood the rebuke well enough. She could see it in his eyes, grey and cold as the clouds outside. “Certainly. I shall have men attend to it directly.” He started to turn away. “If you would follow me, my lady, I will show you to those rooms. They are not far.” He was still carrying Robb. She followed, half a step further away from him than she had walked before.

The rooms he showed her were blessedly warm and beautifully furnished. Under other circumstances she would have been delighted with them. But her husband passed her son back to her and left with nothing more for her than an invitation to join him for dinner that evening.

She looked after Robb’s feeding herself and then left him in the care of the nurse while she looked around of her own initiative and made inquiries about the running of the household. Her husband was nowhere to be found. A cook told her Lord Stark was in the godswood, likely in prayer. Prayer sounded good to Catelyn, but Winterfell had no sept. She would have to manage this on her own.

Dinner was as awkward as she feared. She spoke more to her goodbrother Benjen than to her husband, only to discover Benjen was leaving for the Wall in a week’s time, and had only stayed so long to meet her and Robb.

When the meal was over, Catelyn left on Eddard’s arm. He took her back to her rooms and left her there. She did not invite him in.

\---

“Lady Stark doesn’t like Jon,” Rhaenys observed. She had decided she would be playing near the practice yard today, which suited Jaime just fine.

“No, she doesn’t,” Jaime agreed. Lady Stark had been assiduously ignoring the presence of her husband’s bastard son, and Jaime had no idea which of them to feel more sorry for. On the one hand, he could well imagine Cersei’s fury if Robert Baratheon insisted on keeping a royal bastard in the Red Keep. On the other, Stark’s bastard would not need to be anywhere near as clever as Tyrion to pick up on how little Lady Stark wanted him in Winterfell.

“Is it like how Grandfather didn’t like me?”

Jaime, mind more on who might be available to spar with, barely heard her. “No,” he said absently. “Your grandfather didn’t like anyone. In your case it was because you look like your mother. If you looked like your father he would’ve hated you for something else.” Though according to Lord Tywin, Aerys had been different once, kind and generous. Jaime couldn’t imagine it.

“Robb looks like his mama,” Rhaenys pointed out, latching onto the first half of his statement. “But Lord Stark seems to like him anyway.”

“So he does. Lady Stark is worried Lord Stark will like Jon better than Robb. I wouldn’t mention it to her.”

With all the confidence of a young child who didn’t know the inheritance laws, Rhaenys said, “that’s _silly_.”

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Jaime told her. “Or get your septa to explain it to you. Anyone, as long as you don’t ask Lady Catelyn. Now, run along and play. Go build a snowkeep. Find a cat. I need to practice.”

Rhaenys nodded and scampered off, settling by the edges of the yard and opting to build a little fortress in the spring snow. She’d have trouble. The days were getting warmer, the snows lighter and melting off more quickly. Summer was already on its way. Satisfied that nobody would trip over her, Jaime picked a tourney sword and began to warm up. He was just starting to get into his stride (and thrust and slash and parry) when a familiar voice asked, “Would you do me the honour of a spar, Ser?”

Eddard Stark was similarly geared up for sword practice. He did not practice so often as Jaime did, nor did he seem to be so dedicated to improving his swordplay as Jaime. Which was hardly surprising. The man had a lot to do. Rarely, if ever again, would he have to defend someone by the strength of his arms alone. It made sense for Lord Stark to focus on his duties.

But Jaime was hardly going to say no. Stark had walked away from a fight in which three of the finest members of the Kingsguard had fallen in. He _had_ to give it a try. “How could I refuse such a polite request?” Jaime said mildly, smiling. This would be fun.

He and Stark squared off and began their impromptu match. Jaime was instantly disappointed. Talented military commander though he was, Stark was a thoroughly average swordsman. Jaime had fought better men, Jaime had fought worse men, and about equal numbers of each. But, as Stark managed to fend off a few more aggressive slashes from Jaime, he saw the other man’s game.

Stark _knew_ he was only average. His concentration was unwavering, and he was stronger on the defensive than the offensive. Stark would hold him off until either Jaime finished it – which he could – or Jaime made a mistake. It wasn’t particularly useful in a one-on-one practice fight against a far superior opponent, but in a true battle, with distractions all around and friendly forces beside him…

That would be how the last of his sworn brothers had died, whichever of them had been the last to fall. Focusing on Stark’s efforts to defend himself and overlooking Howland Reed with his net and his poisoned frog spear.

Jaime tested his theory by overextending his next thrust just far enough that Stark couldn’t fail to spot it; not quite so far that Jaime couldn’t possibly recover. Sure enough, Stark lunged for the opening. Quick as a cat, Jaime twisted away and knocked Stark’s sword from his hand. Then he tapped Stark’s breastplate with his sword to end the bout. “Well fought, my lord.”

“Thank you,” Lord Stark said, as he worked the numbness from his hand. “Though next time, do not feel obliged to go quite so easy on me. I am in this yard to improve my swordplay, ser.”

Jaime rather suspected that Lord Stark was here to maintain basic competence, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he said, “If my lord insists. Care to go again?”

In the end he defeated Stark in three more bouts that morning, the last time knocking him to the ground by main strength. He offered Stark a hand back up, not even trying to hide his smile. A clever opponent was almost as entertaining as a skilled one. They were far less likely to grow predictable.

Over on the side of the yard, Ser Rodrik Cassel was laughing. “You’ve been thoroughly outclassed, my lord,” he chuckled.

“Indeed I have,” Stark said, scraping some mud from a gauntlet. He didn’t sound the least put out. In fact, he sounded amused. “I asked for it, Rodrik, and I’ll take my bruises with good grace.”

“So you should,” said Ser Rodrik, before turning to Jaime. “That was a fine display, ser, and no mistake. Would you be willing to humour an old man as well?”

Jaime had sparred with Ser Rodrik already; though aging, the man was still very competent. He was starting to feel the exertion from his matches with Stark in his muscles, but it was a good idea to keep practicing in that state. Real battles tended not to wait for the participants to be fully rested. “I’ll take all comers, ser.”

“Hah!” Cassel roared. “If that’s case, I’ll get my nephew Jory as well. He’s as green as summer grass and could use a good thrashing. It’s about time he had to cross swords with someone much better than he is.”

That lesson was always a hard one, but necessary too. Not to mention better to do it in practice than in earnest. He had no fear of the younger Cassel taking it badly, though, not with his uncle there. So he bowed slightly. “I am at your disposal this morning.”

And, for a few hours, practicing swords, with Rhaenys in sight and happily occupied with her snow fortress (going so far as to man its walls with twig soldiers), Jaime was not bored at all.

\---

Cersei hated being the last to know.

Her maids had been gossiping that something important was going on down at breakfast, and Cersei had no intention of being kept out of the loop. She waddled down to table, feeling fat and disgusting, the babe kicking at her ribs, only to find Robert and his Hand deep in discussion. They ignored her entrance until, with help, she took her seat on Robert’s other side. “Good morning, my lord, Lord Arryn,” she greeted them.

Arryn returned the greeting. Cersei’s lord husband grunted, like the pig he was. “Dragonstone has fallen,” he said, and passed her a scrap of paper.

_To Robert Baratheon, first of his name_ , it opened. _Dragonstone has fallen, the castellan surrendering the castle, in spite of our setbacks._

“Setbacks” meant the storm of two months ago that had forced them to all but break off the siege entirely, maintaining the barest blockade while most of the fleet returned for hasty repairs. Robert had actually devoted some attention to the matter, and the siege had been restored in short order.

_The former Queen Rhaella is dead in giving birth to a healthy daughter. Viserys and the girl were taken by Willem Darry to one of the Free Cities, I know not which. I await further instructions._

_Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End._

Cersei almost laughed. What a letter to send one's brother! She had heard there was little love between Robert and Stannis, but that was ridiculous. If she ever bothered to write to Tyrion, it would not be half so formal. Valonqar or not, she knew who Tyrion was. “Thank you for informing me, my lords,” she said coolly.

“I want them dead,” Robert said to Jon Arryn, ignoring Cersei again. He was in a black mood, as dark a one as she’d ever seen him in. And completely sober, too, which was a novel change. “Viserys at the least, I want dead. That girl with Ned is useless if she has a living uncle.”

“Your grace –“

“No.” Robert slammed his goblet down on the table. “I won’t hear any arguments on this, Jon. Speak to Varys and arrange it. That’s final.”

Lord Arryn sighed. “Yes, your grace.”

Cersei was just about to open her mouth and instruct him not to drag his feet about it, either – she would not stand for a threat to her children, not from some Targaryen brat – but she felt the babe shift inside her, and then something trickle down her leg. Instead, she said (to Jon Arryn, who would almost certainly be more useful than Robert), “fetch a maester, and the midwife.”

The way Robert’s face drained of colour would have been comical, under other circumstances. “You’re…giving birth? _Here?_ Isn’t that early?”

“Yes,” Cersei said shortly, trying to hide the hope building in her breast. Early was good.

Jon Arryn had already left to carry out her instructions. A pair of guardsmen were heading her way, hopefully to help her back to her rooms. “Not here,” she told Robert. “It won’t be for hours yet, at least. By then I’ll be in my rooms.”

“Right,” Robert said. Gods, you’d think the man was a new father, rather than having bastards in four of the Seven Kingdoms. “Of course. I’m going hunting.” He stood up and practically bolted from the hall without so much as a farewell.

That was fine by Cersei. She didn’t want him around anyway. It was Jaime she wanted, Jaime who should be beside her. Jaime _would_ stay beside her for this. She could just imagine the midwife trying to throw him out, and his smile when he insisted on staying.

And it was Jaime’s child she was bearing, she was sure of it. She’d had Jaime in her dozens of times in the weeks before her wedding (and then again between the ceremony and the reception), and Robert, that great drunken bore she had to call her husband and her king, only once. She’d thought of getting rid of it, early on, just to be absolutely certain, but decided that the odds were on her side. Especially since she didn’t know when she would see her twin again. No, the babe had to be Jaime’s. It had to.

Thoughts of Jaime got her through the next few hours, as the contractions first squeezed her belly, and then became increasingly painful. She would not do this for any man other than him, Cersei decided. Nobody but Jaime. She screamed and screamed, which felt good. A Queen wasn’t allowed to scream at any other time.

Finally, it was over, and Cersei lay back on her pillows, panting and exhausted and feeling very alone.

“A healthy boy, your grace, for all he’s earlier than expected,” the midwife said, wiping unnameable fluids from the babe’s face. “A strapping lad, like his father, no doubt. Would you like to hold him?” Cersei simply stretched out her arms for him. After all that effort, of course she was going to hold her son.

Close to, she could see that her son had hair of gold and eyes of green. Not a trace of Robert in him. Only her. Only Jaime.

Cersei smiled in triumph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos make me positively giddy. As usual, thank you for continuing to read this fic!


	4. A Mild Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Seven Kingdoms might be at peace, but the seeds of new conflict have already been sown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings this time: one for infidelity, and another for Catelyn's attitude to and treatment of Jon.

Even after nearly two years at Winterfell, Jaime hadn’t got used to the cold yet. The summer, according to just about everyone, had been fairly cool – and it felt like autumn in the westerlands had. It had also been short. But, in one weather-related saying Jaime was sick of, a short summer meant a short winter to follow.

That, at least, Jaime was glad of. Summer had been cold. He didn’t want to think about what the obviously oncoming winter could be like here. Cold enough to freeze a man’s piss before it hit the ground, or so he’d heard.

“Couldn’t your husband’s family have picked something more cheerful for a motto?” Jaime complained to Lady Catelyn one afternoon as they watched the children playing, all wrapped up to the point of spherical and enjoying a fresh snowdrift. Jaime had learned the boys in particular would need close watching, as they could easily get swamped in the snow, and that could be dangerous if they were not found quickly. “Summer comes just as often as winter does, and the way it snows here, I would have thought they’d need the reminder it _doesn’t_ last.”

Catelyn laughed as she pulled through a few neat stitches of embroidery. She’d taken to doing it out here, under the eaves where some afternoon sunlight angled through and she could keep an eye on her son (easily the rowdiest of the three children). Lord Stark had had a table moved there before she’d even asked for one. “And what of your own house’s words, good ser?” she asked. “Were they recently changed to _Hear Me Gripe_? You are certainly very loud in your complaints.”

“I’ve been storing complaints up over the summer,” Jaime told her. “Like a squirrel with acorns, so I have enough to last the winter.”

“I confess I do not like the cold much,” Catelyn said, she who was voluntarily sitting outside just after an autumn snowfall. “But surely a brave knight such as yourself can handle a bit of a chill.”

“The weather of late is rather more than a _bit_ of a chill, my lady.”

“Perhaps you should go join the children, then,” she suggested. “The exercise will do you good and keep you warm.”

Jaime looked down his nose as her as best he could, a feat made easier by the fact she was seated while he was standing. Approaching them from behind, Lord Stark said, “If Ser Jaime will not join the children, I will.”

Lady Catelyn’s smile brightened. As usual, however, her enjoyment at watching her husband play with their son was visibly mixed with irritation, for Lord Stark was careful to include his bastard son as well. Even now, though Robb had claimed the coveted position of riding on his father’s shoulders, Jon Snow was laughing as he hung off his father’s arm.

Poor Rhaenys looked somewhat jealous. At seven, she was just a bit too tall and heavy to receive the same treatment while Stark carried her foster brothers. But Stark offered the girl his free hand, which she took.

In time, Stark would be the only father Rhaenys would remember. Jaime’s own mother had died when he was nine, and he could barely remember her. He supposed that Princess Elia would fade from her daughter’s memory too. Gods, there were things he _hoped_ that Rhaenys would forget. But her nightmares had never entirely abated, and Jaime knew that she hadn’t.

Being here was good for her, and safe. So safe that guarding Rhaenys was absolutely a waste of Jaime’s talents. At least he didn’t ever have to wish himself away from Winterfell like he had at the Red Keep.

That had been brought home to him just a few days ago, when Lord Stark had asked him to ride out for an execution. The men Stark usually asked to bear witness had been unavailable for one reason or another, and Jaime had been declared a suitable stand-in. He certainly was a more direct representative of the King’s authority than these executions usually saw. The site was an old holdfast. The convicted was an angry, wild-eyed man all in black, a deserter from the Night’s Watch.

“There are always a few as winter sets in,” Jory Cassel told him as Stark asked a few questions to confirm the man’s guilt. He was holding Lord Stark’s greatsword Ice, a fearsome Valyrian steel blade Jaime admired immensely. “The cold’s too much for some of ‘em, and they try to run.”

The man had started to shout about unfairness as Stark decided, and began to recite the crimes for which the deserter would shortly be executed. “By the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die,” he concluded.

Jaime had watched as Stark took his greatsword from Jory Cassel, and then taken the deserter’s head in a single stroke of the sword.

_Clean_ , he had thought as blood soaked into the snow, and remembered the screams of a burning Hand. _And quick_. It had been a while since he had watched an execution. It had been longer since he had approved, for all that he’d sworn not to judge the king. If he ever had occasion to order an execution – most likely for rape or pillaging, if he got a military command again – he didn’t know if he’d go so far as to act as his own headsman, but he definitely saw the merits of a skilled hangman or, failing that, a good sharp axe. _Clean and quick._

He had not had to think of Cersei. These days, when he thought of Cersei, it was only because he wanted to. It made him miss her more, of course, but he hoped she was getting on well enough without him. She didn’t like sending ravens (not that either of them would ever commit their feelings to paper), and the last he had heard of her, she had given Robert a healthy son, who had been named Joffrey.

That had been more than a year ago, not long before the time she had promised she would have Jaime recalled south by. Yet Jaime was still in Winterfell.

\---

“Two ravens came today, my lady,” Ned told her at dinner, once their usual guest (the miller, tonight) had departed. “The first was white. Winter is no longer coming. It is here.”

Catelyn smiled. “My first northern winter. How exciting.”

“You may not think so after the castle has been snowed in for more than a moon’s turn,” he warned her.

“I’m sure I won’t,” she said. “But for now, my lord, it’s something of an adventure. Especially from where I am sitting now, safe and warm.”

He shook his head, but with fondness rather than exasperation. “As long as you _stay_ safe and warm, my lady.” His expression grew serious. Truly serious, the way he looked when there was news of import. “The second raven brought a command from the king. Lord Stannis is to be wed and Robert has asked for my presence.”

Disappointment surged through her, sudden and sharp. It was foolishness on her part, she told herself; her husband had taken a few short trips away from Winterfell in the last two years and she had managed perfectly well without him. “You will be going, then.”

“I have little choice, since Robert commanded it, though I know not why. It will only be for just over two months at most. Stannis is residing at Dragonstone rather than Storm’s End at present, which will make the journey that much shorter. A ship from White Harbor is swiftest. If the weather permits, I could return in as little as six weeks.”

Catelyn thought of the one bad storm she had seen at Winterfell, a howling blizzard that Old Nan had said came all the way down the Frozen Shore. “Promise me that if the weather does _not_ permit, you will take the safe way down the Kingsroad.”

Ned raised his eyebrows. “I will have to get in a boat eventually, if I am to attend this wedding. Dragonstone is an island.”

“You know perfectly well what I mean, Ned.” She glared at him without much heat, visions of tall ocean waves in her head. Ned had told her once he was not much of a sailor, and of how he’d once almost drowned in the earliest days of Robert’s Rebellion as he’d tried to cross the Bite on his way back to Winterfell. “When do you plan to leave?”

“Three days hence,” he said with a sigh. “I will tell the children tomorrow morning. But with my imminent absence in mind, you will not object to me telling them some stories tonight?”

Of course she objected to how he treated Jon Snow just as he treated Robb. Fighting him on that point was futile, though, and only served to make the both of them angry. If he was to leave soon, she did not wish to part with him on such a note. “Not so long as you come to my rooms afterwards.”

He smiled at her, a wonderful warm expression that made her heart beat just a little faster. “I will, my lady.” Then he excused himself to gather up his sons and his ward and move them to the fire in the nursery. He’d tell them tales until the boys fell asleep and Rhaenys was yawning. He’d walk the girl to her cell, and then he would come to her.

It had been months after her arrival in Winterfell that he’d bedded her again. Or she’d bedded him, more like, as he hadn’t wanted her to feel forced into anything. They had got along quite well for a while, before she’d made her disastrous inquiry about Ashara Dayne, and then they’d had to start all over again.

But she had been patient. She had tried to get to know her husband, as he had tried to get to know her. Now she enjoyed his company and (most of) his confidences, as well as his visits to her bedchamber.

She sat down at her dressing table, brushed out her hair thoroughly, and waited.

It was not terribly long before Ned was done with the children. They must have tired themselves out earlier. He crossed the room and immediately leaned over to start undoing the laces of her dress. “Hold on, Ned,” she protested. “I wanted to tell you something first.”

“What is it?” he asked, mouth lingering near her ear.

“My moonblood is late.” She broke away and twisted slightly in her seat to look up at his face. “Almost two months late now.”

He straightened up. “You’re with child?”

“Yes.”

Ned laughed. Catelyn’s ever so solemn husband actually laughed. He knelt beside her and put a hand on her belly. “Another babe,” he said. “Gods, and I have to leave again. We must not make this a habit.”

“Indeed we must not. So you be careful as you go, Ned. Both our children will need their father.” She smiled down at him and took his hand from her belly, holding it in her own. “But careful and fast would be better still.”

“Well, my lady,” Ned said, squeezing her hand before standing again. “I think this calls for a little celebration.” He started trying to undo her laces again. This time she helped him.

\---

The sept at Dragonstone was a fine and beautiful room that felt like any other fine and beautiful room did to Ned. His gods were not there, and the Seven did not speak to him. But the stained glass was lovely, he decided, the lines simpler and colours cleaner than the gilded and jewelled statues of Catelyn’s seven gods.

If he was to build a sept for her, he would make sure it had stained glass. At least a little.

As he examined the wooden carving of the Warrior, an unexpected visitor found him. Barristan Selmy’s hair might have greyed since Ned last saw him, but his handshake was still strong. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Lord Stark,” he said. “I know the king has missed you sorely.”

“I am of course at Robert’s service, but I confess I have little idea why he has asked for my presence here,” Ned told him. He thought he mostly kept the asperity out of his voice. “I trust he is giving you little trouble?”

“His grace is an easy man to guard,” Selmy said. “And it is a weight off my mind to know that the king is quite capable of defending himself in the event of an emergency. The responsibility is still ours, but I have found that events can overtake even the most honourable and vigilant of knights.”

Ned reflected that nobody would know that better than the oldest knight of the Kingsguard, who had outlived two kings.

“The vacant positions on the Kingsguard have been filled?” When Ned had left King’s Landing, he had left with fully half of the Kingsguard. That the only sworn brother of that order accompanying him was Jaime Lannister was testament to how under strength the king’s bodyguard had been.

Selmy nodded. “Ser Arys Oakheart and Ser Mandon Moore are with the king now. Capable men, both of them. It was Ser Jaime I wished to discuss.”

Ned had his own question about Ser Jaime. “Why was he ever appointed, Ser Barristan? For all Ser Jaime is near twenty, he is half a boy still and I cannot imagine he was any more mature at five and ten. Aerys erred _gravely_ in this matter.”

An unhappy look crossed Ser Barristan’s face. “In truth, it was done to spite Lord Tywin. No more reason and no less.” Ned wondered if Ser Jaime Lannister, formerly heir to Casterly Rock, knew that. Selmy paused, and continued more sternly. “Nevertheless, Ser Jaime is a knight of the Kingsguard. And my question for you, Lord Stark – how has Ser Jaime fared in his duty, these last years he has been away?”

Ned thought about it, and decided that as Ser Jaime’s commanding officer and the man responsible for the safety of the royal family, Selmy was entitled to a full and honest report. “Well enough. Ser Jaime is impatient, and he finds his duties tedious, but in spite of that he carries them out. Lady Rhaenys trusts him, and she is not a trusting child. I do not fear that he will make the mistake he made with Aerys. Rather, my concerns are that he will lose interest, lapse in attention at a critical moment, or take foolhardy actions towards his ends.”

To his relief, Ser Barristan nodded rather than taking offense. “Ser Jaime was appointed young. Too young, many would say. A knight of the Kingsguard needs judgement as much as skill at arms.”

Ned would wager that Selmy was one of those many. Nor could he disagree, for all that Ser Jaime’s poor judgement during the Sack had undoubtedly saved his own life and Rhaenys. It was Robert’s safety they were discussing, if indirectly, and Ned would not feel comfortable entrusting that to any boy of five and ten he knew.

“Of course he is not lacking in skill,” Ser Barristan continued. “In spite of what some fools might say. And he showed character in protecting Lady Rhaenys, especially against his own father’s bannermen. No, I agree with you, Lord Stark. It has ever been maturity Ser Jaime wants for. That will come in time.” Then Ser Barristan lowered his voice. “You mentioned Lady Rhaenys was not a trusting child. Would she be as well protected by another knight? Her safety is my concern as long as his grace has assigned a sworn brother to guard her.”

This was increasingly feeling like _intrigues_ to Ned. From the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, of all men, though at least he seemed to be trying for honesty. “No,” Ned replied. “She is very fond of Ser Jaime and would likely not cooperate with a replacement for some time, and that in spite of any efforts I might make to force the issue. If there is a point to this, ser, I would ask you to make it clear.”

Selmy sighed and glanced around with practiced efficiency, checking for intruders or eavesdroppers. “The queen is insistent that Robert reassign her brother to King’s Landing. She says that Robert needs the most skilled arms to guard him, and no arm is more skilled than that of Ser Jaime. But Robert has many strong arms to defend him already, my own included, and King Robert, as I have mentioned, is still a most capable warrior himself. But I am near fifty, Lord Stark, and his grace will not always be so capable. I will be needing a replacement eventually, to guard the king as he grows old. A replacement with good judgment.”

That was clear enough for Ned. Not for the first time, he thought that he should never venture south of the Neck. It brought him nothing but problems. If he were to cooperate with Ser Selmy and ask to keep Ser Jaime at Winterfell, he ran the risk of antagonising the queen. If he ignored this matter entirely, he would be sending a man not fully prepared for duty to guard Robert.

“I understand your concerns,” he said at last. “If his grace mentions it to me, I will make my opinions clear. I, too, want nothing more than Robert’s safety.”

Ser Barristan did not thank him. He left with a nod and a grateful smile. Ned returned to his inspection of the carvings, chafing under the enforced idleness of his stay at Dragonstone.

The day before the wedding, Robert said, “It was good of you to come all this way, Ned,” as they lunched together.

Ned, for his part, wanted nothing so much as to turn around and sail right back home while the weather was fair. “You requested my presence yourself, your grace,” he reminded the king.

“So I did,” said Robert, drinking deeply from a goblet of wine. He seemed to have been drinking deeply since before Ned had arrived on Dragonstone, and Ned wished he could spend less time with Robert wanting to be anywhere but where they were meeting. “I wanted to see a friendly face, but for some reason I asked for yours.”

“My wife is expecting another child.” His third child. He had to remember – Catelyn was expecting the third of Ned’s children, the second of her own. It was easier still these days, now that everyone knew (thought they knew) that Jon was his son and Ned didn’t have to say it himself. Rather, it was details like that one that threatened to trip him up. At least Jon looked like Lya – like Ned himself. Except for his chin, and something about the shape of his eyes. Those Jon must have inherited from his father, but Ned had seen the man up close all of twice and couldn’t rightly say.

Robert sighed. “Enjoy it, Ned! My wife was almost unbearable before she had her babe. Not that she was much fun to spend time with beforehand, mind you.”

Ned gave his friend a perfectly level stare. He had been away for the birth of his heir, and though he would be back in plenty of time for his second – _third, damn it!_ – child’s birth, he would much rather be near his wife for this. “I was sorry to see Jon Arryn was not able to come,” he said once Robert had taken his point.

“Someone has to rule these Kingdoms,” Robert replied, a touch sourly. “And I could hardly refuse to attend my own brother’s wedding.”

“Taking a wife might do Lord Stannis some good,” Ned suggested, remembering the haggard, harsh young man he had met at Storm’s End. Catelyn had certainly been a welcome addition to Winterfell. Her able management of the household and her quiet, sensible advice about a whole range of his duties had made his life immeasurably easier. If that was all Stannis found in his marriage he would be far better off for it.

But Robert shook his head. “Stannis would not wed if Jon and I had not forced him to it. You’d think he had no interest in women. The bride isn’t like to convince him to take more interest, either – Selyse Florent, have you seen her? Ears like the sails of a ship, that’s Florents for you, and a moustache like a boy of five and ten. Not a winning personality, either. She’s as stern as a septa. It’s her family and support in the Reach we need, and the Tyrells have no daughters of a suitable age.”

Ned winced. If true, Stannis was to be pitied. “And how is your son?” he asked, trying to change the topic. “Surely he must be a year old by now?”

“About that old. Cersei dotes on the boy. It can’t be good for him but by all the gods, I can’t find it in me to cross her on this. Which reminds me, actually, she wants good Ser Jaime Lannister back in the capital.”

As promised, Ned made his opinions clear. “I would advise against it, Robert.”

But Robert laughed and waved away his concern. “Oh, I know, I know. You, Jon, Ser Selmy, you all say the same. It’s a pity to waste such a fine swordsman on dragonspawn, but Cersei picked Ser Meryn and Ser Boros for the Kingsguard already, so I can keep her brother where I like. I have no intention of ending like Aerys, Ned, never fear.”

\---

Catelyn had not seen her husband’s ward in her smallclothes before. The North was not a place for short sleeves or light dresses such as Catelyn had worn at play during her own childhood. Nor did one ever need to swim in Winterfell’s moat to escape the summer heat. Rather, the North was a place for layers upon layers of wool and fur.

So she had never seen the scars on Rhaenys’ arms and along several of her ribs. Ugly and straight, they looked unmistakeably and terrifyingly deliberate.

Now, as she stripped the girl of her vomit-spattered gown, was probably not the time to mention it. “I want to go look after Jon,” Rhaenys insisted. “He’s sick too. You’ve been looking after Robb. I want to stay with Jon.”

“You’re sick as well,” Catelyn told Rhaenys as she pulled a nightdress over the girl’s head. “You need rest and nursing yourself.” The girl was rather green around the gills and probably should have been sent to her bed yesterday, but yesterday had been the worst of Robb’s illness.

Maester Luwin had said that it was only a minor stomach ailment going around the castle, and it would soon run its course, but that hadn’t stopped Catelyn from worrying. She herself had been one of the first people in Winterfell to fall ill, and she had been afraid that the babe she carried might be harmed. According to Luwin, everything was well, but Catelyn had recovered only to see her son sicken. Robb had never been so sick before, and minor ailment or not, she had been extremely anxious. She was still rather anxious, though Robb was now on the mend.

Of course Ned would be away for this, she thought. She missed him.

“Take her to her cell, Ser Jaime,” Catelyn instructed the knight standing at the door, once she had finished cleaning Rhaenys up. “Please make sure she doesn’t sneak out.” Ser Jaime had neither been sick himself (yet), nor any use whatsoever. He dodged requests to help just as Edmure used to when sickness swept through Riverrun, but keeping a seven-year-old in her room should be well within Ser Jaime’s capabilities.

“I want to stay with Jon,” Rhaenys repeated. “Please, Lady Catelyn?”

Catelyn was tempted to say no. Jon Snow was no part of her family – he was an _embarrassment_ to her family – and certainly no responsibility of Rhaenys Targaryen. He was being well cared for by others.

But the girl looked miserable enough, and keeping her in the nursery with the bastard would be less work for those nursing them. “Very well,” she said. “But you are to obey the nurses absolutely and not to interfere with their work. If I hear otherwise, I will have you returned to your own room.”

Rhaenys nodded, but she managed a rather wan smile. Catelyn could not bring herself to smile back as Ser Jaime led her away.

Later, when Robb was sleeping (she had firmly told him he could not yet visit his bastard brother, and he was still too sick to protest much), Catelyn went in search of Ser Jaime.

She found him where she expected – outside the nursery. There were dark shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep. _A sword cannot defend against sickness. He probably knows less of ill children than I do._ But even worry could not keep Ser Jaime from smiling. “What can I do for you this evening, Lady Catelyn?”

“Those scars,” she said. “Where did she get them?”

_That_  was enough to wipe the smile from his face. “Lord Stark did not tell you?”

“He does not speak to me about the end of the war,” Catelyn said stiffly. The months between the sack of King’s Landing and Robert’s wedding spanned all the things he did not confide to her. His sister, Aerys’ unsolved murder, the fight against the remnants of Aerys’ Kingsguard…Jon Snow’s mother. “But I am asking you about Lady Rhaenys, not my husband’s doings. You forget, ser, that I am responsible for her too.”

Ser Jaime ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back and away from his face. He looked troubled, Catelyn realised. She was far more used to his blithe confidence and his occasional bouts of sullenness. “One of my father’s bannermen happened to her,” he said at last. “She was hiding under her father’s bed before he dragged her out. She fought back. So the man decided to slice her up a bit before he killed her. Obviously he didn’t get quite that far.”

“You stopped it?” Catelyn whispered, horrified.

“Yes.” Ser Jaime was no longer looking quite at her, but at some point behind her head – back into the Red Keep two years ago, perhaps. “Then I had to take her into her mother’s room. Her brother was dead. I covered his body, but his blood was on the wall. And Princess Elia was dying.” A small smile returned to his face, tight and bitter. “She was very brave. She never complained about the cuts. But then, she hardly spoke after I found her until she left the Red Keep.”

Catelyn knew that Rhaenys had nightmares. The whole castle knew it. She might have been happier not knowing what those nightmares were about. But no, Catelyn reminded herself. She was better off knowing. As she had just told Ser Jaime, Rhaenys was her responsibility too. Not quite her daughter, but close enough. She opened the door to look in on her.

The room smelled foul, of course, with two sick children inside. Rhaenys was fast asleep on a cot, too exhausted and ill even to toss and turn, her beautiful brown curls lank against her head. The nurse raised a finger to her lips for quiet, and Catelyn nodded and withdrew. “She’s so young,” she said to Ser Jaime.

“Her brother was younger,” he shrugged. “My father earned a royal commendation all the same. Is she asleep?”

Disturbed, Catelyn confirmed that Rhaenys was.

“Good,” Ser Jaime said. “I need to rest myself, my lady. Everything seems to be well in hand here, so I’d like to get my head down while I have the chance.”

“You may go,” she told him. “You need to look after yourself too, Ser Jaime, even if you won’t help clean up vomit.”

This time, his smile was more cheerful, closer to his usual self. It was not to last, however: by the next morning, Ser Jaime was sick as well. And, she was told, he made a worse patient than any of the children.

\---

“I said no, woman, and if you ask me one more time I’ll send your blasted brother to the Wall!”

“As you say, your grace,” Cersei replied, voice faint with anger, and Robert stalked off.

Years of effort had yielded no return. By now she knew Robert well enough that she thought he would probably go through with that threat, and so she would have to start afresh.

This was rapidly becoming the worst wedding that Cersei had ever attended, including her own. At least her own wedding had Jaime. After her own wedding she had _had_ Jaime, and it had been all the more satisfying for the breaking of her vows.

She wanted that again tonight, badly. Robert had flirted with every serving girl to pass them by. Now, as the feasting wound down and the dancing began, he was encouraging Delena Florent to hang all over him. He flaunted his infidelity in front of the entire hall, and Cersei needed some revenge.

For that she needed Jaime, either to fuck her until she forgot who she was wed to and he forgot his silly vows, or to just kill Robert. Maybe both. He would do it, too. For her. He would.

Delena Florent wasn't even pretty, she thought resentfully. Those ears.

She entertained those thoughts as she smiled and walked towards her goodbrother. Stannis Baratheon was every bit as sour and sullen as Robert had complained of. Even now, he was sitting next to his new bride and grinding his teeth. He did not react when Cersei gave him what she knew to be her most beautiful smile, the one that had made men stare and sigh since she was twelve years old. Perhaps Robert was right and Stannis truly did not care for the company of women.

“My brother shames you,” he observed flatly as they danced together, one of the many frustrating requirements of being queen. Nor did Cersei need to be reminded of Robert’s behaviour.

“I can bear it,” she said. But only because she would have her revenge. Eventually. _King Joffrey, First of His Name._ She shook her head so that her hair caught the candlelight. Still no reaction from Stannis. She leaned in a little, a far less subtle tactic. “It is kind of you to notice, my lord.”

Stannis immediately leaned back away from her. “Take care you do not shame him,” he said, and returned to his seat and his ugly wife as soon as the dance ended.

Well. She’d receive no help from him. And he clearly was not open to persuasion either. Almost as bad as the eunuch, and at least Varys was polite.

Cersei continued to dance, first with one pompous and tiresome Florent, then another, then with the eldest of Lord Rambton’s sons, and finally with Lord Celtigar. Duties done, she broke away from the dancing and took a seat next to the next man she wanted to speak to. Robert was nowhere to be seen. He’d probably decided not to wait to bed Delena Florent, and in that case she should be grateful they weren't rutting on the floor. “I was hoping to dance with you, Lord Stark,” she said.

“I am honoured, your grace,” Ned Stark said, “but I do not particularly care for dancing.”

Cersei should have known. Robert loved Stark as he did not love his brother Stannis, but Stark seemed almost every bit as dour. “Are you having a pleasant evening in spite of that?”

“Yes,” Stark replied. “It has been years since I have seen his grace, the king.”

“As it has been years since I have seen my brother Jaime,” she said. “What can you tell me of him, my lord?” _You will not keep him in your frozen castle forever._

Stark looked at her, no trace of emotion in his stony eyes. “He does his duties well,” he said in a likewise stony voice. “He has been nothing but a credit to the Kingsguard since he has come to my household.”

“That is good to hear,” she said with a pleasant smile. How she wished she could shake him until he agreed to return her twin to her! She remembered him from her own wedding, his clumsy attempts to banter. She remembered him riding away, Jaime riding alongside a carriage. Her brother deserved to be at the head of any procession he rode in.

“And, of course, he was pleased to hear of his nephew’s birth,” Stark added, almost as an afterthought.

It was Jaime’s firstborn son Stark spoke of, the heir to the Iron Throne. Cersei could feel her smile freezing on her face. “I hope to introduce my son to his uncle soon. It is a shame that Robert does not seem…amenable…to the idea.”

“Yes. A pity.” Lord Stark was unmoved. “It is difficult to be separated from family for such a length of time. But we must all do our duty, and Ser Jaime’s is worthy. He is guarding your own future good-daughter from harm.”

Fear shot through Cersei’s heart with the reminder. _A queen younger and more beautiful._ Elia Martell had not been as beautiful as Cersei was. Everyone said Rhaenys Targaryen favoured the Martells rather than her Targaryen father, who had been fair indeed. _To take all you hold dear._ Her throne. Her son. Jaime.

The little chit had already taken Jaime from her.

“I am very glad of it,” Cersei said coolly. “If you’ll excuse me, Lord Stark, I have kept you to myself for too long.”

She returned to her original seat at the high table and filled her goblet up to the brim with Arbor gold. Nor did her evening improve notably – first there was the bedding, which involved seeing Stannis Baratheon and Selyse Florent naked, and then there was the discovery that Robert and Delena Florent had been fucking in the marriage bed.

_Someday, I am going to kill that man. Queen Regent sounds a good title._

\---

The weather turned foul just as Ned was preparing to leave Dragonstone, so as he had promised Catelyn, he returned to King’s Landing and prepared to take the Kingsroad. It did mean spending more time with the royal party, but on the other hand, he would get to visit Jon Arryn. He needed to discuss sharing a loan to improve the port at White Harbor and the maintenance of the Kingsroad in any case, matters that Robert was thoroughly unsuited for.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you, Ned,” Jon Arryn smiled when he discovered Ned’s presence.

“I am only staying two days, my lord,” Ned told him. “My wife made me promise to take the Kingsroad if storms flared up in the Narrow Sea.”

“Lady Catelyn is a sensible woman,” Jon said approvingly. “Those storms are no small matter and not to be risked lightly even in the mildest winter. Dine with me and Lysa tonight, and we will see you off.”

Ned accepted the invitation gladly.

“How is my sister, Lord Stark?” Lysa Arryn asked him as they took dinner in the Tower of the Hand. She was shorter than Catelyn, just as pretty, but lacked her sister’s serenity and self-assured manner.

“Very well, when I left Winterfell. She is with child again, so I hope to return as soon as possible.”

Jon Arryn offered his congratulations and Lysa did too, but Ned saw lines of unhappiness form around to his goodsister’s eyes.

“She is unhappy,” Jon Arryn confessed to him later, once Lysa had left for her bed. “I know not what to do about it, she is so much younger than I, and not suited for life at court besides. Nor have we been able to have children yet, and it grieves her deeply.”

“Should we arrange with Lord Hoster for her and Catelyn to spend some months at Riverrun, once Catelyn has delivered her babe and recovered? My son Robb has not seen his grandfather since he learned to walk.”

“Perhaps that would be best,” Jon Arryn mused. “And you, Ned? Are you and Lady Catelyn happy?”

“I am,” Ned said at once. “My lady wife is a fine woman. There is none finer. I wish –“

He cut himself off there, before he revealed the secret he had successfully kept for nearly three years now. Of all places to nearly blurt it out, the Red Keep would be the worst.

“Your bastard?” Jon asked gently, and Ned nodded. “It’s not too late to foster the boy out, you know. Your lady wife may still forgive you.”

“No,” Ned said. “I promised young Jon’s mother. Besides, Robb would be distraught, and my ward as well. I only wish that I had never had to insult Catelyn in such a fashion in the first place.”

“If your promises conflict you must choose the one that matters most to you, and live with the consequences of breaking the other. And so must your family,” Jon told him. “You cannot be absolutely honourable all the time, I have learned. Especially since I became Hand. You are a good man, Eddard Stark, but nobody is perfect.”

He only wished that he could be that honourable. But Catelyn was strong. Her pride could survive an insult better than Jon Targaryen (even thinking the name scared him, for all it represented) could survive Robert’s wrath, or the actions of men such as Tywin Lannister.

Ned dreamed of Lya that night, Lya and her roses and the Dornish heat of the lonely tower she died in.

In the morning he wrote to Catelyn to let her know he would be a few weeks later home than he had anticipated. The soonest he would be able to get a response was as he passed Moat Cailin, which was where he directed her to send any reply she might have. He hoped she at least sent word of her continued good health. He missed her.

That day he also met the crown prince briefly, a lad of only a year who strongly favoured the Lannister side of his family. As the boy grew, he would no doubt come to resemble Ser Jaime more than anyone else, even his mother. Ned and Robert might have stayed longer with the young prince, playing with him as they had once played with Mya Stone back in the Vale, until Robert lost interest in his eldest child. Queen Cersei, however, arrived in the room shortly after they did and glared at them until they left.

“You must not neglect your son,” Ned told Robert. “He will be king after you, you should not leave his upbringing to the queen alone.”

Robert looked troubled, but Ned doubted that anything would come of it. He could not fix Robert’s family. All he could do was return to the North and attend to his own.

As he had told Jon Arryn, Ned left King’s Landing first thing in the morning on the third day after he arrived, ending the shortest and thankfully least eventful visit to the city he had ever enjoyed. The trip through the Crownlands and Riverlands was similarly untroubled, and all Ned had to curse were the storms in the Narrow Sea that had prevented him from sailing home.

Without a large entourage or a carriage to worry about, the trip up the Kingsroad was considerably quicker. He made no calls except on Howland Reed, whose keep was once again adjacent to the Kingsroad. Knowing Howland, it was no accident.

And when he reached Moat Cailin, there was indeed a letter from Catelyn there, assuring him that all was well with her.

\---

It was in the middle of a heraldry lesson when Lady Catelyn swept up to the door and announced to Rhaenys, “Lord Stark will be back shortly. Get in your good dress, please, and then down to the hall.” Septa Mordane ended the lesson on the spot, saving Rhaenys from endless drills of sigil and house, and Jaime followed as his charge practically ran back to her room to change.

When Catelyn had told Rhaenys that Lord Stark would be arriving home in a month, rather than any day now, she had been very worried. “He’s coming back, isn’t he?” she asked Jaime.

“Probably,” Jaime said. Rhaegar Targaryen had left for a war and never come back, and Rhaenys could remember that even if she couldn’t really remember her father. “Nobody’s trying to kill him that I know of. And he has guards with him too.” That had reassured her a little, but she had still joined Lady Catelyn in her rooms to say a few prayers to the Seven for Lord Stark’s safety.

Now Rhaenys emerged from her cell in emerald green wool. “Will Lady Catelyn get Jon too?” she asked, glancing down the hall towards the nursery and clearly wondering if she had time to check.

“Don’t worry, she’ll get Jon,” Jaime assured her. “Lord Stark will want to see him, so she’ll get him.” Lady Catelyn was quite kind in that regard. Jaime suspected that in Catelyn’s place, Cersei would not rest until she had evicted her husband’s bastard from the castle.

The weather was not fine enough to hold the welcome in the courtyard – it never was, now that winter was upon them – so the household packed into the hall. Lord Stark entered, snow crusted on his furs, visibly exhausted. Nevertheless, his face brightened (inasmuch as Stark ever looked happy) to see his family.

Lady Stark, her pregnancy past its fourth moon, was radiant. Her discreet grip on Robb’s shoulder was all that was stopping the boy from running to his father. But young Robb, of course, could not long be thwarted. Jaime remembered Tyrion at three; his brother had been slippery as a fish. Not so fast, but fiendishly clever, frustrating his nurse no end. Jon Snow settled for beaming up at his father, Rhaenys beside him, naked relief on her face.

To Jaime’s surprise Lord Stark greeted him as warmly as he did anyone. “Queen Cersei and Lord Commander Selmy send their regards,” Stark told him. “The Queen in particular was very eager to see you again.”

Jaime smiled widely. His sister had said she would get him reassigned within a year, and it had been more than twice that. He’d been disappointed when she hadn’t managed it, but then again he was hardly in need of rescue. Dull as it was, life in Winterfell wasn’t that bad. No burnings. No standing vigil while Aerys raped his queen. “As I am eager to see her, my lord.”

“It likely will not be possible for a little while yet,” Stark warned him. “Your Lord Commander prefers you to continue your duties here, and his grace King Robert agreed.”

So, his sister had failed entirely. She would have been in a towering rage. Robert had better be careful, or no Kingsguard would be enough to protect him from his wife.

If he couldn’t see her, he ought to write, he thought. Nothing revealing, just enough to reassure her he was well, or as well as he could be without her. He would be faithful, too, just as he always had. Two years or ten, he would be true, and break his vows only with Cersei.

In the meantime, he was in for blizzards and boredom, practice in the yard or a spot of hunting if the weather cleared enough, and his paramount duty as glorified nursemaid. He was doing a good job of it, at least. Nobody could say he was doing a _poor_ job, not like they said he'd done with Aerys, Aegon and Elia. Jaime still personally thought he had done a very good job with Aerys indeed, though he had the sense not to boast of it.

He would not argue about Aegon and Elia. Them, he had failed.

“I serve at the pleasure of the king,” Jaime replied, as he'd once told his father. Unlike Tywin Lannister, though, Eddard Stark nodded his approval of Jaime's words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad news is, I have an RL thing that will almost certainly delay the next chapter. Sorry everyone, I'll do my best. And after you've been so collectively awesome, too.


	5. Family Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good father, a good brother, a good son, a good lover, a good knight - pick two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally. Okay, your specific content note for this chapter: there will be reference made to a canonical, consensual relationship between two underage (13-14 year old) characters. Nothing more graphic than "this relationship exists," everything's strictly off screen, and because of that, I personally don't feel it merits the "underage" tag. Just be aware, if it bothers you.

Strictly speaking, the Lady of Winterfell did not need to be teaching her husband’s ward personally. That was what Ned had hired Septa Mordane for. For this topic, however, Catelyn had decided to step in.

Rhaenys was learning about the major families of Westeros.

“I have an aunt?” Rhaenys asked, her eyes wide.

“Yes,” Catelyn said. “She is living in exile with your uncle Viserys in the Free Cities, as far as I know. Do you remember Viserys?”

Rhaenys shook her head. She had certainly remembered her grandfather though. “He was scary,” she had told Catelyn in a small voice. “I didn’t like him.”

“Viserys is a few years older than you,” Catelyn continued. “Your aunt Daenerys is younger.” It felt cruel, to tell Rhaenys about family she would likely never meet, but the fact she had a living uncle might still become an issue. Catelyn hoped not. She would much rather everything went to plan and Rhaenys became queen one day, securing her own future and leaving the Targaryen line to dwindle peacefully away in Essos.

“There is also your mother’s family,” Catelyn continued, once Rhaenys had proved she knew the Targaryen family in living memory, as far back as Aegon the Fortunate. “Princess Elia had two brothers, Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn…”

At least Rhaenys might one day be able to meet her Dornish relatives. She certainly _should_ get to know them. And she must remember to speak to Ned about finally taking Robb and Sansa to Riverrun for a visit. Ned had long since said it would be a good idea, but they’d never made arrangements in stone.

Over the next few days they went over the Starks and the Tullys, not a difficult task given that Ned had only one brother remaining to him and no aunts or uncles at all, and the family of her birth wasn’t much larger. Then they went through the Baratheons, another small family. But then they got to the Lannisters, and for that Catelyn called in some assistance.

“How many uncles and aunts do you _have_?” Rhaenys asked Ser Jaime, with not a little irritation.

Ser Jaime laughed. “A few of them. Let’s see. My father’s brothers are named Kevan, Tygett, and Gerion, and his only sister is Genna, who’s wed to a Frey. You’ll enjoy trying to memorise _them_ , my lady.” Catelyn would never be so cruel as to do that to a child. Besides, the Freys were her father’s bannermen, and most definitely not one of the great families. There was not yet a need for Rhaenys to learn about them in detail. “On my mother’s side there’s only Uncle Stafford. The real question is – how many cousins do I have?”

Rhaenys glared at him. Catelyn stifled a laugh herself. “Don’t confuse her, Ser Jaime,” she said, and then, “How many cousins _do_ you have?” She didn’t know herself. Her knowledge of the westerlands families was out of date.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ve been away so long, surely there are more now.”

He would probably find out soon. Ser Jaime was leaving for a tourney in two days. Lord Tywin was hosting it at Lannisport. The king and queen would be attending, and it seemed the queen had finally persuaded Robert to allow Ser Jaime south of the Neck, albeit temporarily. It was for this reason Catelyn had decided Rhaenys would be learning the Lannister family tree today, rather than the Tyrell one. She was more than old enough to understand that Ser Jaime had his own family, whom he had not seen for years.

Her husband had not been best pleased – he despised Lord Tywin, Catelyn knew, and mistrusted the queen. And he understood very well the love of family. “Ser Barristan prevailed upon me to keep Ser Jaime away from the queen,” Ned had admitted to her as they conversed the night the request for Jaime’s presence had arrived. “He feared what effect her influence might have on him, and on the Kingsguard. Lord Tywin could only be worse.”

“Yet you cannot keep him away,” Catelyn pointed out. “It was the queen’s request, and it is only for a few months.”

“I prefer him here. There is a limit to Lannister influence over the realm while Robert’s safety is not in the hands of Tywin’s favourite son.”

“Ser Jaime is here as a concession to the Martells,” she reminded her husband. “He is not officially a hostage. You must trust Robert, or Lord Arryn and Ser Barristan at least, to send him back to us upon the tourney’s conclusion.”

Her Ned was not a fool and knew perfectly well that forbidding Jaime to attend the Lannisport tourney would only anger the queen, her father, and Ser Jaime himself, and for no purpose. Still, she felt for her husband. Even though his friend was so far away, he took Robert’s safety seriously.

She bid farewell to Ser Jaime as she and Sansa proceeded slowly around the glass gardens. Her daughter was a sweet-tempered girl, far more cautious than Robb and more hesitant to let go of Catelyn’s skirts to walk on her own. “If you see my father or my uncle, please pass on my regards,” she asked him.

“I will, my lady.”

“Ride well, Ser Jaime.”

His smile was dazzling, when he chose. There must have been many a disappointed maiden when he took his vows, though gods knew her sister had not been one of them. “I _always_ ride well.”

She watched him walk away, and then returned to minding her daughter. Ser Jaime would be back.

\---

It was strange to be by himself again, after years of guarding first Aerys, then Rhaenys. Alone, the northern landscape he rode through seemed just that little more perilous, though Jaime knew the Kingsroad was safe as it ever got. The brief, mild winter made it extremely unlikely that either man or beast would be hungry and desperate enough to attack him.

And safe the Kingsroad proved to be, though a bit solitary. It reminded him of the humiliating journey to King’s Landing from Harrenhal, oddly enough. _The tourney’s back the other way, ser!_ The last time his father had hosted a tourney at Lannisport had ended poorly too, he recalled. Cersei had been distraught when it ended without her betrothal to Rhaegar.

She had still had him, though.

Eventually he left the Kingsroad to cross the Green Fork at the Twins, since he didn’t care to make a detour as far as the Trident. The only Frey Jaime had ever dealt with was Merrett Frey, back when he was a squire, but he knew a few people who had had the displeasure of dealing with Lord Walder himself. He planned to take Lady Catelyn’s advice to pay the toll and leave as quickly as possible.

It was not to be, however. He was recognised, offered hospitality, and invited to dinner. Jaime had a hard time imagining less pleasant ways to spend the evening.

“What’s this then?” Lord Walder said, peering at Jaime from his high seat. His mouth was never entirely closed, even when he wasn’t speaking, affording Jaime a good look at Lord Walder’s sole remaining tooth. “A brave knight of the Kingsguard in our halls? But this one doesn’t guard kings, heh. You’ll find no princesses in need of gallant rescue here, so what brings you this way?”

“The tourney at Lannisport,” Jaime replied, keeping his pleasant smile firmly fixed in place. “His Grace requires my attendance.”

Frey nodded. His jowls flapped when he did. “Some of my own dolts galloped off a few days past. All in such a rush to leave their happy home.”

“I am eager to be on my way,” Jaime said, hoping for a reprieve.

“And we’ll see you on it, never fear.” He waved to one of his sons (or possibly a grandson) to lever him out of his chair. “Let it not be said that the Freys of the Crossing make poor hosts.”

The Freys of the Crossing made poor hosts indeed, but Lannisters of the Rock made good guests, and Jaime held his tongue. No matter how his Aunt Genna might laugh if he matched insult for insult.

As he neared the Riverroad, fellow travellers became more common. The first year of spring had been unusually quiet, Jaime quickly learned. There were surprisingly few ironborn raids to defend against, and a tourney in one of the realm’s most beautiful cities sounded a good proposition to many hedge knights and freeriders. And Lannisport was beautiful. The North _could_ be beautiful sometimes, but it was mostly dangerous and always cold. It couldn’t compete with the rolling hills, leafy trees and plentiful flowers of the western lands. It was good to be home. And good to be warm.

Lannisport was also busy, as busy as Jaime had ever seen it. It appeared his father was intent on putting on quite the show. Though the tourney was still more than a week off beginning, there were tents up on the outskirts and merchants of all kinds were plying successful trade.

But just as it had been four years ago, Jaime was only interested in the Rock. Cersei wasn’t there now, but no place had everything.

It was Tyrion who greeted him there, which was a pleasant surprise. “Father was called to the docks,” he explained after they’d exchanged greetings. “He should be back in a few hours.”

Jaime took a good look at his younger brother. Tyrion had grown somewhat, though of course he would never reach a normal height. It was hard to remember he would be a man soon. “It’s good to see you,” he said.

“You might be the only person who would ever say that,” Tyrion commented wryly. “But it’s good to see you too.”

After Jaime had washed and changed clothes, he found his brother again (shamelessly interrupting his reading), and together they headed away from the more crowded areas of the castle. “So, what has happened in my lengthy and very chilly absence?” Jaime asked. “Any new cousins?”

Tyrion took a moment to count. “Five,” he said.

“Not as many as I feared. Five I think I can remember. Whose are they, and what are their names?”

“Uncle Kevan’s wife had twins,” Tyrion listed. “Willem and Martyn. Uncle Gerion’s bastard is here too, her name is Joy. Then there’s Walder, he’s Aunt Genna’s youngest, and Tion was born not long after you left.”

“And everyone is well?”

Tyrion shook his head as they reached their destination and sat down, and a chill ran up Jaime’s spine. “Uncle Gerion left for Valyria,” Tyrion said.

“I should have liked to wish him good luck.” Jaime knew that a trip to Valyria bordered on suicide at the best of times. He could see Tyrion knew it too. They would likely never see Gerion again.

“And Uncle Tygett is ill. Dying.”

That was worse still. “I shall see if I can visit him before the end,” Jaime said. It was grave news. Jaime loved all his uncles well, except for his mother’s brother Stafford, who he loved only out of obligation. The man was a fool, even Daven would admit. But he did not let himself dwell on it. “Is there any good news?”

Jaime’s brother leaned forward at that, mismatched eyes shining. “I learned to _ride_ ,” he said. “The maester and the saddlers and I, we worked out how to make a saddle so I wouldn’t fall off. Now I have a horse.”

“You don’t have trouble mounting and dismounting?” Jaime asked.

“Yes,” Tyrion admitted. “But still. I’ll race you tomorrow.”

“Done,” Jaime said instantly. “Three silver stags on the outcome. That way one of us will have more to bet on me in the jousting.”

They talked happily for a while after that, of happenings in the Rock and Lannisport, and of Jaime’s life in the North, but the moment could not be avoided. Eventually a servant came to tell them that Lord Tywin had returned, and wished to see his elder son. Glad that he had dressed in his house colours rather than any sort of Kingsguard white (another change from what had become normal; how strange it felt), he went as summoned.

Lord Tywin was at his desk already, when Jaime entered his solar. “Jaime,” he said, as though they had seen each other the week before, rather than four years ago. His father did make a concession to the occasion in that he set his papers aside. “It has been too long.”

“Likewise, Father.”

“I am glad you arrived in time for the tourney,” Tywin said. “I had worried your invitation would not reach you.”

Jaime smiled. “It’s been a long time since I attended a tourney, and longer since I rode in one. I wouldn’t have missed it.”

“Good.” It was, as ever, hard to tell if his father actually meant that word. “How is life in the North?”

“Cold,” Jaime said. “Miserable weather. Your grandson’s future wife continues tolerably well, no potential rebellions in sight. A less exciting assignment could scarcely be dreamed of.”

If Lord Tywin were the sort of man to gloat over being correct, surely he would have done so then. Jaime knew his father better than that. Just as he knew better than to say _I like it well enough despite all that, compared to the Red Keep under Aerys_ , or, even worse, _I don’t fancy the task of a Lord Paramount._ It wasn't a task for him.

“Robert will be arriving three days hence,” Lord Tywin announced abruptly. “There are to be certain meetings before the tourney you should also attend.”

If Robert was coming, so too was Cersei. Jaime was far more interested in that. In her. Let the king and his lords have their discussions.

But Lord Tywin was still speaking. “It is very possible that this time next year we will be at war, after the last of the spring storms die down. There is some discontent on the Iron Islands that may become something more. Hoster Tully and I must discuss the defense of the coastline with the king, Lord Stannis and Paxter Redwyne.”

“I only know a little of Ironborn raids in the North,” Jaime said dubiously. “They have not been raiding much lately, and when I left none of Lord Stark’s bannermen had felt the need to appeal to him for help.”

“You will need to attend in the event that you need to command,” Lord Tywin replied severely. “You have been wasted too long in the North. Whether you serve the King or do the right thing by House Lannister and take your place as heir to this castle, you will be needed.”

“Is it really _that_ serious?”

Lord Tywin waved away his objection. “Balon Greyjoy would be an utter fool to make a move before the end of the spring storms. Next year, I said. If it comes to open war at all, which is not a certainty. An extended royal visit to empty their treasuries may yet solve the problem, though I doubt it will be that simple. In any case, you will attend.”

Jaime knew that his father would not be moved on this. “Yes, Father,” he said, and knew that half his chances to see Cersei privately had escaped him.

\---

As promised, his older brother went riding with him the day after he arrived. Jaime eyed Tyrion’s special saddle dubiously at first, but once Tyrion was mounted up Jaime changed his tune. “That’s very clever,” he said as he rode alongside Tyrion out the gates of the Rock. “Where shall we go?”

Tyrion thought for a second. “North, over the bridge.” He didn’t much like crowds, or the way people stared at him. North would keep them well enough away from the tourney traffic after only about an hour of riding.

“A good plan,” Jaime said. “Maybe we can go south tomorrow.”

That didn’t sound as good to Tyrion, but he saw his brother so little that he’d probably go along anyway. They talked as they rode down from the Rock to the northern bridge, Tyrion telling Jaime everything he’d managed to learn about Valyria since Uncle Gerion had sailed, Jaime telling him about the hot springs at Winterfell. They went through the walls, Jaime said, so the castle was always warm. Tyrion would like to see it, though he didn’t think Father would let him visit. Sooner or later, though, he'd be a man and free to go where he pleased.

The road past the bridge was clear of travellers at the moment. There were mostly crofters’ villages up that way, and those who came to market at Lannisport would already _be_ at market in Lannisport. “To the next stream?” Tyrion proposed. “Three stags, remember.” And he urged his horse forward without waiting for Jaime’s answer.

He would never get sick of this. Even after more than a year, he enjoyed being able to go further from the Rock than his short legs could carry him, or two men and a litter could. He liked the speed. He liked the _height,_ he especially liked the height.

Behind him, he could hear Jaime laughing.

His brother let him win and tossed him his three stags. Tyrion knew perfectly well, of course, that his brother was the better horseman. How could he not be? “Don’t spend it all in one place,” Jaime said, as they stopped to let the horses drink.

Then, from around a bend in the path, they heard a cry, followed by men’s shouts. Jaime motioned Tyrion to be quiet. In their silence, Tyrion counted four male voices as well as a crying girl. “Are you going to help her?” Tyrion whispered.

Jaime nodded, his smile sharp and bright as the sword he was loosening in its sheath.

“Can – can I do anything?” Tyrion asked, though what that might be, he didn’t know. He couldn’t use a sword, had no training in arms.

To his surprise, though, Jaime nodded. Keeping his voice low, he said, “I’ll chase them off. You take the girl. Get her away from here if you can.” As soon as Tyrion nodded his agreement, Jaime spurred his horse forward into a gallop. Tyrion followed a small distance behind.

As they rounded the bend, the scene came into view. There were five men, not four, clustered around the girl they’d heard cry out. The bandits – for bandits they surely were, here to prey on unsuspecting tourneygoers, Tyrion thought, with their rusted chainmail and lack of heraldry – looked up as they heard Jaime’s approach, and then scattered. Jaime rode down the man holding the girl and flung her roughly aside. Tyrion winced to see it, and flinched at the sound of the bandit’s bones breaking. But as soon as the man was dead he urged his horse forward towards the girl. “Can you ride?” he asked her, and she shook her head.

That put him in an awkward position, and no mistake. He couldn’t run, and if she couldn’t ride, they were going nowhere fast. But as he looked around, he realised that Jaime had succeeded in chasing the bandits away. He could hear shouts off in the brush nearby, but he and the girl were alone with the first corpse.

Tyrion took a risk, and dismounted – or rather deliberately toppled off his horse as safely as he could. Without a block or assistance of any sort that was the best he could do. His stunted legs crumpled under him as he hit the ground, and he ended up falling on his face in the dirt in front of her.

She didn’t laugh. She was in no state to laugh, Tyrion realised, but he was still glad of it. “Are you all right?” he asked, even as he saw tears were rolling down her cheeks. “It’s safe now. Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said, rather faintly. “Just…scared, m’lord.”

“My name’s Tyrion,” he told her. “And I was scared too.”

“Tysha,” she said, and then her own legs gave out for shaking. Eye level with Tyrion now he could see how beautiful she was. Her dark hair was perfectly straight, her skin was tanned golden, and even red-rimmed from crying, her hazel eyes were clear.

“Tysha,” Tyrion repeated. “We’ll take you home, Tysha. Where do you live?” He tried to get between her and the body. There was a lot of blood, more than Tyrion had ever seen in his life, and it smelled like shit. That was an unwelcome detail his books had skipped over.

“The village,” Tysha said. “It’s not far. Thank you, m’lord, for your help.”

“My name’s Tyrion,” he said again, and offered her his hand. She took it and held on tight. “My brother Jaime is the one doing all the work,” he added. “We’ll just sit here and wait for him, and then we’ll take you home. It’ll be all right, you’ll see.”

The shouts in the undergrowth stopped after a little while. A few minutes after that, Jaime reappeared. His clothes were bloodied and his hair escaping its tie, but there didn’t appear to be a scratch on him, and his eyes were shining with glee. “That was fun,” he announced, smiling broadly. “They won’t be bothering anyone else again.”

Tyrion glanced sideways at Tysha. She was staring at Jaime as though he were a dangerous lunatic.

 _That may not be too far from the truth. Jaime_ likes _this sort of thing?_ He must, because he did it for a living. And everyone said Jaime was one of the best swordsmen in the world.

“This is Tysha,” Tyrion said to his brother. “She lives in the crofters’ village. I promised we’d take her home.”

“My lady,” Jaime said, and bowed easily and smoothly. A pang of jealousy trembled through Tyrion. That sort of thing was so easy for him. “Will you ride with us?”

“Ser,” she said, and her hand tightened almost painfully around Tyrion’s, “I cannot ride.”

“I can’t ride double,” Tyrion said as Jaime looked at him speculatively. His saddle wouldn’t allow for it, and besides, he would fall off his horse if Tysha had to hold his shoulders to balance. “Will you ride with Jaime?” Tyrion asked Tysha. “He won’t hurt you.”

After a bit of hesitation, Tysha nodded. Jaime helped her onto his horse, and then Tyrion onto his own. “Hold on,” Jaime advised once he had mounted up as well, and they left the scene and headed towards the crofters’ village at a walk. Tyrion tried to cheer her up as they rode, telling her all about how he learned to ride, and by the time the village came into sight, he’d coaxed a smile out of her at least.

They stopped outside a hut that looked much like all the other huts, and Tyrion watched Jaime help Tysha dismount, another unpleasant little shock of jealousy in his heart.

Then, as Tysha turned to enter her hut, Jaime came over to Tyrion. “Ask her if she’d like you to stay,” he whispered. “She’s still shaken up.”

“You should,” said Tyrion, because everyone preferred Jaime to him. What could he do?

But Jaime shook his head. “She’s scared of me. You stay with her.” He tied Tyrion’s horse to a fence, and gestured for Tyrion to climb down himself. “Go on.”

Tyrion did as Jaime bid, starting to feel very nervous. Behind him, he heard his brother get back on his horse and ride away. Jaime would not save him from this particular harrowing situation.

He knocked on the doorframe and asked Tysha if he might come in.

\---

Ned had been dreading this for a while.

Catelyn had warned him that it would be coming soon, but he had hoped it would be later. Actually, he had hoped it would be never, but that was a foolish, futile hope. Like hoping that winter would not come.

“She will want to know,” Catelyn had said. “You cannot keep the truth from her, and if you do not tell her, someone else will. I doubt they will know so much about it as you do.”

 _The truth._ Ned should have liked to be able to tell the truth. Not only to his ward, but to his wife, and to his nephew, and his children.

“She should hear it from you, my love,” Cat had said when he did not reply. “I understand that you don’t want to hurt her, or relive it yourself, but this is the kindest way to do it.”

Rhaenys had chosen her moment carefully. She had waited until the boys were playing with Benjen, here visiting Winterfell on a recruitment mission from his Lord Commander, while Catelyn was occupied with arranging a nice meal for her goodbrother, and Ned himself was looking over accounts alone in his solar. Then she had asked to speak to him.

“You want to know about your father,” Ned repeated.

“Lady Catelyn said I should ask you,” Rhaenys said. “Please, Lord Stark?”

“I did not know your father,” he told her. “I met him just once, briefly, at Harrenhal. He was a fine singer and a better joust, and he had a reputation for preferring books to swordplay. But what you really want to know is about him and my sister Lyanna, yes?”

Rhaenys looked uncomfortable, but also determined. “Yes. I just – everyone says he was a bad man. I want to know.”

“I understand,” Ned said. “I will tell you what I can.” _All that I can, without endangering Jon._ It might be precious little.

“My sister was betrothed to Robert Baratheon when she was just barely fifteen,” he began. “They were not to wed until she was a bit older, but he was already very much in love with her.”

“Did she love the king?” Rhaenys asked.

The first difficult question. “He was not the king then. How do you feel about being betrothed to the Prince?” he asked, and Rhaenys shrugged. Like Lyanna had been, she was too young to have thought about betrothal and marriage much. “Lyanna felt like that. She had her doubts, but she respected our father and his decisions. She attended the tourney at Harrenhal in part to get to know her betrothed better. Your father met her there.”

Rhaenys frowned. She clearly knew that this was not going to be a romantic tale such as she occasionally asked Cat to tell her and instead listened to him with a sort of grim intensity that looked out of place on a nine-year-old girl.

“I do not know what happened between them at Harrenhal,” Ned lied outright, because he knew perfectly well that his sister’s attempts to avenge Howland Reed’s honour as the Knight of the Laughing Tree had ultimately led to what they now called Robert’s Rebellion, “but Prince Rhaegar won the tourney and crowned my sister the Queen of Love and Beauty, rather than your mother, who was there as well. Robert was very jealous, but we went back to the Vale with Lord Arryn and thought little more of it.”

There Ned stopped, wondering if he could truly slander Rhaegar to the man’s daughter. Calling him a reckless fool was one thing, calling him a kidnapper and raper something else entirely.

And yet, if he did not…he did not want anyone asking questions about the true nature of Rhaegar’s relationship with Lyanna.

“It was more than a year afterwards that Robert and I heard that my sister had gone missing from Winterfell with Prince Rhaegar,” he said at last. “My brother Brandon went to the Red Keep to challenge him.”

“I don’t remember that,” Rhaenys said in a small voice.

“It is best that you do not.” Brandon’s fate, and his father’s, did not bear thinking about. Not for him, not even years later. He hadn’t told Catelyn the details either, or Benjen. They didn't need to know. “I went to war because of what Aerys did to my father and my brother. Jon Arryn went to war because Aerys called for my head, and Robert’s. No matter what anyone says about your father, Rhaenys, remember that. There is more than one reason the war began.”

Her goodfather-to-be would likely mention the topic, and Ned could only hope that Robert would not ruin his son’s nuptials. He could only hope that Robert would in time forgive Rhaegar enough to allow their children to wed each other peacefully, and maybe have a chance at happiness.

Rhaenys nodded. “Yes, Lord Eddard.”

“Nor was it Prince Rhaegar’s fault my sister died,” he continued. In truth he himself had trouble forgiving Rhaegar for hiding Lyanna so far from home, even when Aerys had murdered Ned's father and Brandon with him. It was the kindness of the gods alone that he had found his sister and had even those few minutes with her. But the decision to leave had been hers as much as Rhaegar’s, she had said at the end, and she had wanted her babe with all her heart. “She died of a common fever, such as she could have fallen ill with whether she was at Winterfell or Storm’s End.”

“But he hurt her,” Rhaenys said. Her determination had given way to distress, but she was still in her seat.

It seemed to Ned that he could hear Lya’s voice again, telling him what she could. _Promise me, Ned._ He closed his eyes for a second, just a second, before he looked at Rhaenys in the eye and told her both the truth and a lie. “Yes,” he said. “He did.”

Before dinner that evening, in the last of the afternoon light, Ned picked some flowers, took up a lantern, and went to visit his sister in the crypts. She was lovely as ever, eternally sixteen, eternally sad. He wondered if he should bring her a knife, so she too had steel to keep her spirit in her crypt. She deserved to rest, not wander through Winterfell’s halls searching for vengeance she could never have.

Footsteps echoed through the stone halls shortly after Ned arrived, and he knew Benjen was visiting as well. He laid his flowers at Lyanna’s feet alongside the ones Ned had brought, and they stood there together in silent contemplation.

Eventually, Ned said, “You helped them leave, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Benjen said.

“You didn’t have to take the black for it.”

“Not by the laws of men,” Benjen said. “But I helped Lyanna break her betrothal, and the prince his marriage vows, and my actions exposed our father to ridicule. A war came from what I helped to do. I bear some of the responsibility for it all.”

They were silent a bit longer, before Benjen spoke again. “The prince wed her, Ned,” he said. “Before the heart tree and the old gods. She wouldn’t leave until he did.”

“Lya told me,” Ned replied. He wondered if he should tell Ben the rest of it.

But he was used to the lies, and no matter whether Jon was Ned’s or Lya’s, he was Ben’s nephew either way. And Ben had known enough of the truth for longer than Ned had. Lyanna had made her own choice – a reckless, dishonourable choice, but hers to be sure – and here they could speak of her as she had been, rather than as the songs made her out to be.

That was what mattered, Ned told himself. He had promised not to tell, and he wouldn’t. It was safer for everyone that way.

\---

Traveling with Robert was even worse than just living with him, Cersei had long since decided, but Casterly Rock was not far off now. At least she had her son, her beautiful golden son, to distract her in the meantime.

And Jaime, thoughts of Jaime. Jaime might be there already. Four years – they had never been apart for so long before. She wanted him back in her bed again. Nobody else could compare.

Her father was clearly trying to get him back, Cersei saw as they rode through Lannisport. With all this splendour, Lord Tywin hoped to reclaim his heir. Jaime had always loved tourneys. But Cersei knew her twin wouldn’t give up the Kingsguard for a tourney. She wouldn’t _let_ him give up the Kingsguard for Casterly Rock.

After all, the Lord of Casterly Rock would have to wed and breed. Cersei had no intention of sharing, and Jaime’s only children would be hers as well. She would make sure of it.

Maybe they could make another child, she thought as she watched Joff play with his nurse, though Cersei wished the woman wouldn’t squeal so when he tugged at her hair. A fierce little brother or a beautiful little sister for Joff would be nice. And it would keep Robert well away from her for half a year and more.

The wheelhouse came to a stop, and Cersei hurried to ensure her dress and hair were perfect. She was wearing red, of course, Lannister crimson, with as tight a bodice as possible. Her husband wouldn’t care, but Jaime would. She stepped out of the wheelhouse and started to scan the crowd for him.

He was easy to spot. Jaime was by their father’s side, dressed all in white, standing out amongst all the men and women in red and gold. He bent the knee before Robert, as everyone had to, but when he straightened he caught her eye and grinned.

“Sweet sister,” he said as the welcome was conducted, and kissed her quickly on each cheek. Four years and she had to be content with that, when she longed to take him by the hand and drag him to her chambers, make him prove that he was hers and only hers.

“Dear brother,” she replied, and continued to play the dutiful wife to Robert Baratheon.

She didn’t see Tyrion anywhere. She hoped he had fallen into a ditch and broken his neck.

It was like it was when he had come to escort her to King’s Landing, those wonderful weeks before her wedding. She waited and waited, through a meeting about the Ironborn and the feast that night, until she was sure Robert had found himself some _company_ (she made a note of it; none of Robert's bastards would come from Casterly Rock), until finally Jaime slipped into her rooms.

She melted into his arms at last. “Jaime,” she murmured. “Jaime, Jaime, Jaime.” He told her she was beautiful, he told her he was true, and just as she imagined, he told her he was hers. It was all she ever wanted from him, and she swore she would not wait another four years to have him again. No more finding tolerably handsome blond hedge knights to try and take his place. Getting rid of them later could be so inconvenient.

“I _will_ bring you back to King’s Landing,” she swore again as they lay in bed together. “Robert will listen to me eventually.”

“It’s not as bad as all that in the North,” Jaime said, and from the tone of his voice she knew he was smiling. “It’s boring, but I feel like I’m doing something worthwhile. The Starks don’t burn anyone alive, either. They just freeze them all and chop heads off when appropriate, much more my sort of thing.”

“You should be with me,” Cersei told him, not amused. “And our son.”

Jaime sat bolt upright. “ _Our_ son? Cersei…”

“Yes, our son! Joffrey! I presented him to you this afternoon. Surely you remember.” Though her son hadn’t been remotely interested in his true father, to her irritation. “Like I would ever bear Robert Baratheon’s child,” Cersei sniffed. She sat up too, so she could lean her head against his shoulder.

“Then I should stay in the North,” Jaime said uncertainly. “It would be safer for you…you both. If someone found out- ”

“You don’t want me?” she asked, jerking away from him.

“More than almost anything,” he said, and Cersei narrowed her eyes. _Almost_ anything? “I don’t want you to get hurt. If I stay away, nobody will ever ask. You’ll be safe. Joffrey too.”

“We’ll be safest with you there beside me,” Cersei argued. “I know you’ll always protect me. You love me, don’t you?” This was not going the way she had planned it.

“Yes, of course I love you, but –“

“But what?” she asked. “But nothing. You’re mine, you promised, you _swore_. It’s not even against your silly vows any more than we’ve already been doing. The Kingsguard guards the queen as well.”

“The Kingsguard serves the king,” Jaime corrected her. In the dim light she could just make out the bitter twist to his mouth. “Aerys used to rape his queen and I had to stand outside the door and listen. If anyone had tried to stop it I would have been honour-bound to intervene on Aerys’ behalf. Ask me to run to the Free Cities with you and I will do it in a heartbeat. If we can only be together occasionally, like this, I can do that too. I’ll break my vows for you.” He paused, and said quietly, “It’s keeping them I fear. Don’t make me stand by while you make things harder for yourself. If I stay in the North it won’t be a problem.”

Cersei climbed out of her bed then, and found Jaime’s shirt and breeches where she’d stripped him of them. She picked them up and threw them at his head, as hard as she could. “Get out,” she hissed. “I don’t want to see you. Get out.”

“As your grace commands,” he said. He dressed and left her alone to fume. When had he become such a craven? In his place Cersei would take what she offered him and kill Robert if he laid a hand on her in anger.

She was still going to kill Robert anyway; she didn’t need Jaime for that. She wasn’t like Aerys’ stupid weak slug of a queen. She was going to make Robert _pay_ , as soon as the time was right. When Joff was a little older and Jon Arryn a few years closer to his demise. Perhaps she should hurry that along as well. It would do her no good to kill Robert only for his Hand to become her son's regent.

She avoided Jaime until the tourney began, and by then her anger was abating a little. He was still so beautiful, even if he was wearing that hateful white to compete. He should be in red and gold. Golden armour like he used to wear, and his lion’s head helm.

Their father clearly agreed. He sat by Robert’s other side and surveyed the proceedings with well-concealed discontent, save for when Jaime rode.

Her brother was still the finest joust in the Seven Kingdoms, too. Aerys had robbed him at Harrenhal all those years ago, and the Starks and Robert had robbed him ever since. Jaime should have crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty half a dozen times by now.

It was not Jaime’s fault, she decided, as he prepared for the final tilt against Ser Barristan of the Kingsguard. Barristan the _Old_. It was the Lord Commander’s fault. His, and Jon Arryn’s. They were the ones whispering to Robert to keep Jaime north, away from her. They would pay too, once she had Jaime back.

When Jaime won, as she always knew he would, he gave her the Queen of Love and Beauty’s crown, a wreath of lush red roses, the first of the spring. And that night, she went to his room.

“Cersei?” he whispered, surprised and trying to hide it.

She crossed the room to his bed and unlaced her bodice. “We’ll do it your way,” she said. “We’ll be together whenever we can.”

She would see to it that she got him back eventually. Jaime was hers.

\---

Before Jaime left, he had one final stop to make. He had hardly seen Tyrion since the day they ran into the bandits and the girl in the woods. That had been fun. It had been far too long since Jaime had fought in earnest. In fact, the entire trip had been good fun. He’d won a tourney, saved a maiden, worked things out with Cersei, met his nephew (it was so much easier to think of Joffrey as his nephew) and got into a good fight. What else could he want from his life?

Well, his Uncle Tygett not to be dying, he supposed. Tygett hadn’t been taking visitors – too much fuss, his aunt-by-marriage Darlessa said, and he didn’t want anyone to see him so weak. So Jaime had shouted his farewells through the door, as though he was just riding out for a few days, and Darlessa had reported that her ailing husband had smiled to hear it. Jaime would miss him. Other than that, he had had a truly excellent time at Casterly Rock.

It wasn’t much of a detour to the crofter’s village, only a few hours out his way. And with a very long trip back up north ahead, a few hours would make no difference. Not that he would ever leave without saying farewell to his favourite brother.

Tyrion’s horse was easy to spot, a different sort of beast entirely to the local draught horses. Even if Jaime couldn’t remember which hut the girl they’d helped lived in, he would have known just from the horse. As he approached the door, he heard laughter, and Jaime smiled.

“Ser Jaime,” the girl greeted him when he knocked on the door. Tysha, that was her name. She was a pretty girl, he could see that now that she wasn’t crying and terrified. Tyrion had been lucky. “Please, come in, m’lord.”

“Jaime!” Tyrion exclaimed, and jumped off his chair to greet him.

“I thought I would find you here,” Jaime said. “I’m just coming to say my goodbyes. It’s back to the frozen north for me.”

“Wait, Jaime,” Tyrion said, and reached up to take Tysha’s hand. “Before you go, I want to reintroduce you. Tysha, this is my brother Jaime. Jaime, this is Tysha, my lady wife.”

Jaime felt his insides freeze solid. “The pleasure’s all mine,” he said with a bow to his goodsister, who curtsied clumsily in return. “Pray excuse me, my lady, I need to speak with my brother alone.”

Tyrion followed him out of the hut. “You need to annul the marriage,” Jaime said without preamble.

“No,” said Tyrion. “I won’t. I won’t do it. She’s my wife.”

“Tyrion,” Jaime said, “For her sake and for yours, you need to have the marriage annulled. Father will find out. You know Father will find out.” Lord Tywin had no love for his youngest child, but he had plenty of pride in the family name. Tysha of the crofters’ village would never be a good enough match for any Lannister. He would never allow it, and he would be angry.

“He won’t. I’ll be careful. He hasn’t found out yet.” Tyrion was starting to sound worried. _He should be worried. He doesn't know what Father is capable of._

“There’s been a tourney on. Everyone’s leaving now. Sooner or later he’ll find out where you are and what you’ve done.” He remembered what happened to little Aegon Targaryen. He’d heard _The Rains of Castamere_ more than once in his life. “If you don’t annul the marriage he’ll do it himself.”

Now Tyrion definitely looked scared. “He can’t make me.”

“Yes he can.” He needed Tyrion to understand. “He won’t allow it. If you love your wife, you’ll annul the marriage before he finds out, and never mention it to anyone. Tyrion, he’ll _kill_ her, and then he’ll start on you.” A village like this, the septon would travel through on occasion, and could be days away. He couldn’t stay long enough to make sure. Riding back to Lannisport for the septon there would definitely alert Lord Tywin. He would have to trust Tyrion to do the right thing. “Promise me.”

Shaken now, Tyrion nodded.

“Good,” Jaime said. “I won’t tell Father, don’t worry about that. Just annul it, as fast as you can, and pray he never finds out.”

“I will,” Tyrion said. “How long will you be gone this time?”

“I don’t know,” Jaime said. “It depends on the king. I have to get permission to leave my post for a tourney like this. Hopefully it won’t be another four years.” He mounted up, ready to return to the Riverroad and the journey north. “Good luck, Tyrion. Be well.”

“You too.” Tyrion looked miserable, as well he might, but he added, “Dress warm.”

Jaime left him to say goodbye to his temporary wife. He fretted about the matter all the way to the Green Fork, paranoid that Lord Tywin found out before Tyrion could manage to obtain the annulment. But there was nothing to be done, and at the Green Fork there were Freys. This time he escaped without being forced into dinner.

As he started the journey through the Neck, he started to think about Winterfell. He had been gone for nearly three months. He hoped Rhaenys was well; it would be the height of embarrassment if she were to be attacked in his absence. Not that he believed Lord Stark would allow such a thing. In his saddlebag he had small gifts for Robb and Sansa from their grandfather Lord Hoster, as well as a letter to Lady Catelyn, too long and bulky to send by raven. _White cloaks, bright words,_ Jaime thought. He hoped that was actually true.

He was almost looking forward to returning, he realised.

Shortly afterwards, Greywater Watch loomed out of the mists, definitely not in the same place it had been when Jaime had first travelled to Winterfell. Howland Reed himself came out to greet Jaime.

“It’s been a while,” Jaime said affably.

“Indeed it has,” Reed replied, “But this is not the happiest of occasions, Ser Jaime. We have just received word. The Ironborn have raised their banners in rebellion, and your father’s fleet is burned at Lannisport.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient. It's been a bit hectic, but as you can see, there's a chapter. Thank you especially to everyone who left feedback of any sort, it's always a bright spot in my day.


	6. Just Like Old Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not actually just like old times. People have changed too much for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing about battles is hard, you guys. Sorry for the delay. No new warnings or content notes.

The raven carried dire words, as most ravens seemed to do.

_The Iron Islands have rebelled under the leadership of Balon Greyjoy. Lannisport is under attack and the fleet there burned. Raids as far south as the Shield Islands. Call your banners, see to your own shores, march to reinforce Seagard and wait there for further orders._

Beneath those words, in Robert’s own hand, it said _Marching to relieve Lannisport personally. If you find Ser Jaime, send him there too. I’m giving him to Stannis for the duration. Don’t keep me waiting, Ned. I want you with me when I take Pyke._

Ned passed the letter to his wife. “Oh, Ned,” she sighed after she read it.

“Neither the Ryswells nor even the Glovers have not informed me of any trouble on their shores,” Ned told her. The Stony Shore was not the most populated region of his lands, and news from there could be slow in arriving. “There has been no word from Howland Reed about attacks up the Fever, either, or from the Dustins about raids up the Saltspear. Nobody has reported any sign of an attack whatsoever.” None of that precluded a surprise attack, however, perhaps taking place once Ned marched the strength of the North elsewhere.

“It seems that this war will be fought in the south,” Catelyn said sadly. “My father’s lands will suffer for it.”

“The attack on Lannisport would indicate the Westerlands are to suffer first,” Ned mused. “It makes a certain sense. The Greyjoys cannot have the strength to subdue the North, the Riverlands, and the Westerlands together, but if they can hurt us deeply enough they might possibly achieve their independence from the Iron Throne…” It would explain why his lands had been left alone. He shook his head. “Robert would never allow it, not until every tree on the mainland had been used as lumber for his fleet.”

It was foolishness. Rank madness. But that had not stopped Balon Greyjoy.

Ned turned to Maester Luwin then, who was waiting patiently for a response. “Send the news to every castle you can. Tell the Boltons, Hornwoods, Karstarks and Umbers to gather what forces they can spare and bring them here. Wyman Manderly is to rally and march directly to Seagard, along with Lord Cerwyn’s forces.”

Luwin nodded and left, leaving Ned alone with Catelyn. “You must rule Winterfell while I am gone,” Ned told his wife. “I’ll leave you Ser Rodrik and a strong garrison. You should be perfectly safe, my lady." 

“As you will not be,” she replied. “Fear not for your castle, my lord, I will keep it as wisely as I am able.”

“I trust you.” It was the wrong thing to say; he saw it as soon as he said it. Catelyn’s lips twisted in disbelief, though she hid it quickly. _Jon. It is always about Jon, and what I cannot tell her._ It seemed the secret lay ever heavier on his heart.“You will do well.”

He spent the rest of the day making preparations. The first harvest of the summer would be disrupted, there was no avoiding that now. If the season was long there would be time to recover stocks for winter, which was always coming, but the past few seasons had been short. That, more than anything, worried Ned.

As usual, he told the children last. That something unusual was happening could hardly be hidden, but none of them were old enough to be involved directly, and he would rather they spent their day without undue disruption. It would only upset them to find out he was leaving. It certainly grieved Ned himself to leave; as his children grew, and as he had come to care for Catelyn, he was ever more loath to leave them for long.

But neither could the moment be avoided. After dinner, sitting by the fire with little Sansa on his lap and the other children by his feet, hoping for a story, he searched for the words to tell them. “I am going away again,” he said, opting for simplicity, and the elder children looked at each other. So they had noticed, and talked.

“Is there a war?” Robb asked. “The men in the yard said there was a war.”

“Yes, there is a war,” Ned explained. “Not a big war, like the one you and Jon were born during, just a little war. The rulers of the Iron Islands decided they do not want to be part of the Seven Kingdoms anymore. King Robert cannot allow them to leave, or he will look weak.”

“So why do you have to go?” asked Jon. He looked worried. But then, Ned was leaving Jon here under Catelyn’s ultimate supervision, and Catelyn loved him not. An older sister still a child herself was no replacement for a parent.

Nor should Ned encourage Rhaenys and Jon to grow too close. There might not be harm to it now, but eventually Rhaenys would be queen, Rhaenys Targaryen Baratheon. _What a name it is._ Jon, on the other hand, would always be Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell. And he was still afraid that as they both grew, more of Rhaegar Targaryen might show in their features. An observation like that - a comparison between the two - could be deadly for Jon. And Ned himself.

“The king is my friend and my liege,” Ned said. “He has written to ask for my help, and I am obliged to give it.”

“How long will you be away?” Jon again.

 “Several months, at least,” said Ned. Building up for an assault on the Iron Islands would take some time, especially with the Lannister fleet burned. “As long as it takes. But I will come home as soon as I can." 

Rhaenys spoke at that. “What about Ser Jaime?” She had been anxious with her protector absent, even more mistrustful of armed men and more prone to her nightmares, and Ned knew she had been eagerly awaiting his return.

It was with some regret, then, that he had to tell her. “Ser Jaime will be coming back when I do, at the earliest. He is bound to serve the king, and the king has decided Ser Jaime is needed elsewhere at the moment.”

 

\---

 

“ _Stannis_? Really?”

“Yes, really,” Howland Reed said, unperturbed. “You can read Lord Stark’s letter just as well as I can. You are to return to Lannisport and wait for Lord Stannis’ arrival there, and thenceforth to serve as he deems fit.”

It was better than nothing. Stannis, at least, would likely see action in this war. Jaime wouldn’t have put it past Robert to send him back to the Red Keep for the honour of guarding Cersei. The notion had its attractions – quite a few of them actually – but so did the idea of fighting in the biggest war the Seven Kingdoms were likely to see for some time.

“All right,” Jaime said. “I suppose I’m turning around and going back the way I came.”

“I’ll send you with some of my men for guides,” Reed said. “They can lead you through the bogs and cut a few days from your journey.”

Reed was true to his word. If Jaime had thought those first trips through the Neck were dreary, they had nothing on the path off the Kingsroad. He quickly lost his bearings, and he knew that without the guides he would have perished. It did, however, take the promised days off the trip, and even deposited him on the correct side of the Twins. From there he rode hard past Seagard, against the flow of mobilising Riverlanders, towards the Westerlands.

Men, women and children smiled to see him pass, in his white cloak only a bit stained from travel. Like a hero from the songs. No ironborn raids had touched this far inland, and all the smallfolk here cared to know of war were the bloody songs.

Lannisport was a very different sight when he approached it this time. Gone were the decorations, and in their place were camps. (Granted, some of the commanders’ pavilions were quite fine.) The docks were a hive of activity as men cleared the burnt wreckage of his father’s ships and the various trading vessels that regularly called in Lannisport. They’d made quite a bit of progress, but the sight of them all on fire must have been fearsome.

_Charred bones and cooked meat. I am glad I was not here to see this, at least._

It was quite a good opening move, Jaime thought. It had taken everyone by surprise and utterly decimated the fleet that posed the greatest threat to the Iron Islands. His father must have been livid. 

When he arrived at the Rock, he didn’t even stop to change before reporting in. He regretted it at soon as he walked into the room his father used for meetings.

“Why, if it isn’t my errant goodbrother!” Robert Baratheon said. Jaime took a knee as fast as he could. Almost as soon as he did, Robert motioned that he should rise. “You’ve made good time. I half thought Stannis would make it here before you.”

“The news reached me at Greywater Watch, your grace. It was not so far to travel.” In all the years that Robert Baratheon had been king, Jaime had spoken to him perhaps twice. A Kingsguard who guarded no kings, that was Jaime. Now he was finally assigned to a member of the royal family, and it was Stannis. “How fares your lady wife, the queen?”

“Cersei’s well, she’s well.” Robert dismissed the question with a casual wave of his hand that could knock out a man’s teeth if it connected. Approaching war suited him. He certainly looked more enthusiastic than he had when he wed Cersei. “Kept pestering me to let her come here.” He looked Jaime up and down then, taking in his somewhat dishevelled appearance. “You’re dismissed, Ser Jaime,” the king told him. “Go get yourself some pretty clothes. You’re not needed here today.”

Lord Tywin was standing behind Robert. Jaime hadn’t even greeted him yet. Nevertheless, Tywin’s expression indicated that Jaime should do as he was told, straight away, in spite of the insult. _Why ask me here if he doesn’t intend for me to do anything?_  

And Jaime was better than the men currently guarding Robert, too, with Ser Barristan marshalling the last of the Crownlands’ forces. He only knew them a little, but he knew them enough to know that he was more skilled than either. Or both put together. The man with the dead fish eyes he seemed to recall was named Moore; Jaime would never be able to tell what the man intended until his sword was halfway out of Robert’s chest, and he disliked the idea. The balding, heavyset knight was Boros Blount, Jaime had seen him joust in the tourney just past. Blount was not very good at all, and Jaime wondered just who had given him a white cloak.

And _Jaime_ was to be the one shunted off onto Stannis, and then presumably back north?

_This is how it started with Aerys. The war is back the other way, ser._

He took out his frustration in the practice yard as best he could. There were plenty of fresh sparring partners for him. He beat them all and then went to find Tyrion, but his brother had apparently been confined to his cell by Lord Tywin for some mischief and wasn’t allowed to see anyone.

Jaime hoped that it had nothing to do with his brother’s secret nuptials, but he dared not ask, lest he accidentally reveal what had happened to Lord Tywin.

It was much the same the day after, and the day after that, and the whole week afterwards. He did at least manage to sit in on a few councils of war. Details of shipbuilding never failed to fascinate him. A raven from Seagard arrived, telling of how the first of the northmen had arrived. Jaime remembered the seemingly endless leagues of field, forest and marsh Lord Stark ruled over, and wondered that he’d managed to get _any_ men to Seagard so quickly.

Without Stannis, though, still sailing around the Seven Kingdoms, the Iron Fleet was raiding viciously and with impunity along the coast just south of Lannisport, under the loose command of Balon Greyjoy’s brother Euron. North of them, Feastfires and Kayce had been attacked, Fair Isle was suffering and in danger, and Seagard was under siege. Every day, more men arrived and were sent out to defend against the raids.

Late one evening, so too did Lord Stannis and his fleet arrive. They were not immediately sent out, however.

If the prospect of imminent war suited Robert, it was not the case with his brother. Stannis looked drawn and exhausted when he was ushered into Lord Tywin’s meeting chamber, and his hairline seemed to be receding even as Jaime looked. Stannis glowered at everyone – at his men, at Lord Tywin, at his brother the king. “I have done as you asked,” he said to Robert at the meeting called the morning after his arrival. “The fleet is yours.”

“The fleet is _yours_ ,” Robert replied. “You’re Master of Ships. What plan do you have for dealing with the Iron Fleet?”

The sound of Stannis’ teeth grinding practically echoed off the walls.

“Fair Isle,” he said. “With your blessing, I intend to divide our fleet and lure the ironborn into the channel between Fair Isle and the mainland and trap them there.”

“Now that Euron Greyjoy has returned to his brother on Pyke, his brother Victarion has the command, according to our spies,” Lord Tywin said. “He is brutal, but not intelligent along with it. He can be lured into position.”

“Good,” Robert said brusquely. “I leave it to you, Stannis. Send word when you’re done, and Ned Stark and I will prepare to smash the Iron Islands themselves. I march for Seagard two days hence, to link up with Ser Barristan on the way.”

Jaime almost laughed. He could sympathise, he really could. _Do all the difficult work, brother of mine, and Ned Stark and I will take the lion’s share of the glory._ And he would be along for the journey.

 

\--

 

Rhaenys liked the sept at Winterfell. Lord Eddard had built it for Lady Catelyn, and it was only a small sept, but it was pretty. She particularly liked the carvings of the Seven on the walls, six of them with Northern faces, two of which she recognised. The Crone was Old Nan, she knew, and the Warrior looked like Lord Eddard, but Lady Catelyn said it was actually his older brother Brandon.

She and Lady Catelyn prayed to the Warrior a lot ever since Lord Eddard left.

_Noble Warrior, please protect Lord Eddard and Ser Jaime in this conflict. Lend strength to his arms and courage to him and all his men, so that he may end this fighting and return safely home to Winterfell as soon as possible._

Sometimes she asked the Father if Lord Eddard could come back soon too, but it seemed wrong to ask any of the Seven but the Warrior about Ser Jaime.

When she finished, Jon was waiting for her alone outside the sept, to her surprise. Usually he’d be with his brother at this time of day. “Lady Stark wanted to talk to Robb,” he said, which explained that.

“You can play with me instead,” she told him. Lady Catelyn never wanted Jon around and didn’t like it that he and Robb got along well. Rhaenys knew why, but she still didn’t like seeing Jon unhappy.

“I wanted to go to the godswood.”

Rhaenys hesitated for a second. The crypts of Winterfell had never bothered her, but the godswood was different. The statues of all the dead Stark kings were only statues, but whenever she went to the godswood she felt like the trees were watching her. “All right.” She didn't want to say no, not if Lady Catelyn had stopped him playing with Robb.

Despite his shorter legs Jon was half a step in front of her all the way to the godswood. “Do you know when Father is coming back?” he asked. “Lady Stark won’t tell me anything.”

Rhaenys shook her head. Somewhere above her head a bird took flight, making her jump. “Your father’s at war. The war isn’t over.”

But Jon still looked worried, so Rhaenys added, “Everyone says he’ll win, though. The Iron Islands are _tiny_ , so they can’t possibly have enough men to defeat Lord Eddard and the king together.” She told herself that a lot. She didn’t remember her father, but she did remember the day her mama told her that her father was dead. It wasn’t hard to imagine Lady Catelyn telling her that Lord Eddard was dead, even if she tried not to. “He won the last war too.”

And then what would happen to her if Lord Eddard actually did lose, or die, like her father had? She liked Winterfell. She didn’t want to leave Jon and Robb and Sansa, or Lady Catelyn. _It won’t happen_. All around her, branches creaked in the breeze, so it sounded like the godswood was laughing at her.

Lord Eddard didn’t even have Ser Jaime with him. Rhaenys knew that if he were there, Ser Jaime would look after Lord Eddard for her. That would have made her feel better. But he wasn’t there and she didn’t feel better.

She fidgeted slightly while Jon prayed. The face on the heart tree stared down at her foster brother, and Rhaenys wondered if she could protect him from his old gods, if she needed to. After all, she couldn’t even stop him feeling bad when Lady Catelyn was being mean to him.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden crashing through the brush. “Jon! Jon!” Robb came tearing into the central clearing without even seeing her, eyes bright and a wide smile on his face. He waited for Jon to stand before he burst out, “Mother says we’re to have a new brother or sister.”

Lady Catelyn had probably said only that _Robb_ was to have a new brother or sister, but Jon smiled all the same. “I hope we get a brother,” Robb continued. “You’re more fun than Sansa.”

“Sansa’s only little,” Jon pointed out. “She can’t play with us.”

“She will when she’s older,” Rhaenys said. Robb startled when he realised she was there. “My brother used to be –“

Suddenly she was back in her mama’s room. There was blood on the wall, and all over her mama, and over her too, and her arms and sides hurt. It smelled bad in here, and her brother - her brother -  _where was Aegon?_

After some time, she didn't know how much, Rhaenys realised that Jon was pulling at her hand and Robb was nowhere to be seen. She wasn’t in her mother’s room in the Red Keep; she was in the godswood at Winterfell. “Are you all right?” Jon asked. He looked scared. “You didn’t hear us. Robb went to get Lady Stark or Maester Luwin.”

“Am I bleeding?” she asked. Her arms had been cut, she was sure of it.

Jon shook his head. “No. You stopped talking. We asked if you were all right, but you didn’t hear. Then you started crying. You didn’t even fall down. Why would you be bleeding?”

“I just thought –“ she checked the sleeves of her dress. No blood. But she was crying, Jon was right. “It doesn’t matter.” The heart tree was staring at her now. She didn’t like it. “I want to go back.” Her legs were shaking, and she only managed a few steps before she had to sit down.

Jon sat down across from her, his grey eyes still frightened. “Maester Luwin will be here soon,” he said. “You’ll be all right.”

But it was Lady Catelyn who found them first. Jon scrambled to his feet when he saw her and got out of the way. Lady Catelyn wiped Rhaenys’ tears away and helped her back to her cell, where Maester Luwin was already waiting. “It’s fear and grief that ails her,” the maester said once he’d examined Rhaenys. “There’s no cure for it but courage and time.”

“You must be brave,” Lady Catelyn said once Maester Luwin had left, sitting down next to her on her bed. “I know it’s hard, but we must concentrate on what we can do for the people with us now. We must be strong for them, Rhaenys.” She sighed and turned to face Rhaenys more fully. “My own mother died when I was about your age. I missed her very much, but if I had gone to pieces my sister would have too, and there was my newborn brother to think of. There is no shame in sorrow, but you will be a queen one day, and queens cannot weep in public. They must be strong enough for all the Seven Kingdoms.”

Rhaenys wiped her own tears away this time, and drank some water. After a minute or so, her eyes stayed dry.

“Good,” Lady Catelyn said with an approving smile. “Come, I’m going to look over the accounts. You are old enough to learn to manage them, and keeping busy will help you.”

She was right. The ledgers Lady Catelyn showed her were hard to read and the mathematics were more complicated still, but while Rhaenys added up the wages for the washerwomen (Lady Catelyn promised to check her work later), she couldn’t miss Lord Eddard or Ser Jaime.

That night, after she prayed to the Mother for Lady Catelyn and her babe, she prayed to the Stranger, rather than the Warrior or the Father. The Stranger must know about war, she thought, and prayed,  _Please don’t take them yet. Please._

 

\---

 

Lord Stannis had been far too kind to Jaime. He’d given him a few hundred men and charge of collecting and imprisoning any ironborn who might wash up half-drowned after Stannis had finished smashing the Iron Fleet. “It must be done,” Stannis had said. “You know the western coast better than almost any officer I have under my command, ser.”

And Jaime wasn’t _really_ complaining. For one thing, the alternative was standing next to Stannis for the whole battle. And not only did Jaime find Stannis disagreeable, but Stannis did not intend to be anywhere near the fighting. “I am needed to command,” he had said, “and command I cannot do whilst trying to swing a sword.” If it had been almost any other man, he would have been called craven. Jaime knew better, but that didn’t mean he wanted to spend any more time around him, the sullen, self-righteous git.

For another thing, being called on to use his knowledge (if not his skills) was a novel and, he had to admit, rather thrilling experience. If all went well, the histories would say that Stannis Baratheon won a famous victory in the waters off Fair Isle, and Jaime was happy enough to do his part and hold the coasts, so no surprise longboat full of iron raiders snuck into the hills and maybe seized a castle.

Though for his own personal satisfaction, he wouldn’t mind if they _tried_. He was even considering praying to the gods that they tried.

There was still some planning to do before that, though. When Stannis had said that Jaime knew the coast hereabouts better than almost any of his other officers, he had been referring to none other than the notorious Onion Knight. Lord Tywin had ensured that Jaime knew the coast well, in case of ironborn invasions like this one, but Seaworth…

“Rocks or no rocks, we will need at least a few men here,” Ser Davos insisted. “It can be done, and there are ironmen who know it.” He was a plain, square-faced man, Ser Davos, unassuming and almost diffident in manner, except when it came to ships and shores. Those, he had opinions about.

“It’d be a fortunate man who survived the experience,” Jaime said. He had never sailed near the small inlet to which they were referring, as everyone knew it to be full of reefs with a strong tidal current.

“If any did, it would not be too difficult a trek overland to Ashemark,” Seaworth said. “I’ve done it myself.”

Of course he had. Jaime was quickly coming to believe Davos Seaworth had made safe harbour at every port, bay, cove, inlet and indeed, every sheer cliff in Westeros. “Ten men,” Jaime decided. “With good horses and Ashemark’s garrison on alert.”

Jaime himself, they decided, would be stationed at Fair Isle’s longest, widest beach. The current would likely wash up most of the bodies, and at least a few survivors. Jaime hoped that some survivors with fighting spirit would wash up. He’d like to do some fighting in this war.

In the two days before the Iron Fleet’s arrival (still under the command of Victarion Greyjoy, apparently) Jaime and Ser Davos visited every fishing village they could ride to in time and encouraged them to set watches in case they came across anything suspicious, in return for their promises of assistance.

“Ser Arthur Dayne used to do things like that,” Jaime explained at dinner, the night before the battle was expected. Half of Stannis’ fleet was waiting in the channel. The other half was out of sight, waiting for the signal to move into position. All that was needed was the Iron Fleet.

Visiting the villages had been…interesting. The villagers had been excited and flattered to see a knight of the Kingsguard. _They thought I was a proper knight. Like from their songs. Just like in the Riverlands._ He finished off another goblet of wine. And everyone had liked Ser Davos, who was lowborn as could be and knew how to talk to smallfolk. But they had all promised to help in any way they could. Jaime and Davos had been _inspiring_.“Do you remember the Kingswood Brotherhood?”

“Not so much,” Ser Davos said. “A few months before the tourney at Harrenhal, wasn’t it? Around that time I was running spices between Pentos and Gulltown. Bandits in the Kingswood didn’t much concern me.”

“The smallfolk used to think they were heroes,” Jaime recalled, lost in battle anticipation and just ever so slightly drunk. “Used to hide them in their villages. Made it almost impossible for us to ever find them. But Ser Arthur said we had to do right by them, and then the smallfolk would help us instead. He was right, too.” 

“Hard to imagine a man like that serving the Mad King.”

“Aerys would have just ordered the forest burnt down,” Jaime agreed. “He was a simple man with simple tastes. It was Rhaegar, I’d wager, who gave the Kingsguard their orders.” Oh, he had definitely drunk too much wine, if he was talking about Aerys. He poured the remaining contents of his goblet on the floor and filled it up again with water. “But while we’re talking about _justice_ , Ser Onions, tell me how the best smuggler in the Seven Kingdoms came to deliver cargo to Stannis Baratheon. Of all the lords in Westeros you had to pick the one who would chop your fingers off.”

Ser Davos considered his answer. He was a surprisingly serious man, Ser Davos, far more earnest than Jaime had expected a smuggler to be. “The challenge,” he said at last. “Shipbreaker Bay, that’s hard enough at the best of times. But running a blockade there in perfect silence on a moonless night? They say you’re the best jouster in Westeros, Ser Jaime. Surely you can understand.”

He could indeed.

“Besides,” Seaworth added. “I was a thief, it’s true, and that’s the price for theft. I insisted Lord Stannis do it himself, though. Seemed only fair." 

Jaime burst out in incredulous laughter. “You should meet Eddard Stark. He doesn’t keep a headsman, you know, does all his own beheading. Says it wouldn’t be _fair_ if he made someone else do the execution when he’s the one decreed the death.”

“Sounds like a sensible policy to me,” Ser Davos nodded, though he looked a bit surprised as well.

Jaime sighed and drained his goblet of water. “I need to sober up a bit, ser, if you’ll excuse me. I’ll see you in the morning.” Ser Davos readily admitted to not being a particularly skilled fighter, and would be doing the same cleaning up that Jaime would be doing, only moving from beach to beach. Any ironmen trying to hide from him would have a difficult time of it.

Ser Davos bid him goodnight. The older man looked a bit nervous himself, though Jaime supposed that with a wife and five sons at home, Ser Davos had ample reason to worry. And, he had to remember, this would essentially be Ser Davos’ very first battle. He was a smuggler and a sailor, not a soldier. He’d participated in the siege of Storm’s End only inasmuch as he’d skilfully avoided the better part of it.

Jaime got a tourney sword and practiced for half an hour, just to clear his head. This would be his first real battle since the Sack, too. That scuffle with Tyrion’s bandits hardly counted. Knowing that he could soon be fighting in earnest made every swing of his sword more accurate, his footwork faster.

He was a very good swordsman. A better swordsman than jouster, in truth. Hopefully, he’d be able to show that off – and move on to a different assignment.

 

\---

 

Seagard was a keep that had seen a lot of fighting. There had been plenty in the weeks just past. For the moment, however, it was over. The Mallisters had held out well. The bell in the Booming Tower had rung, and Jason Mallister had personally slain Rodrik Greyjoy, eldest son of Balon, in the ensuing battle below the walls, on the shore itself. 

Ned’s forces had only needed to put a definitive end to the warring, and the bay was now secure. Robert had arrived a few days after him, disappointed to miss the action, and Ser Barristan would be arriving shortly with the last of the available forces.

Unless Stannis Baratheon’s fleet was burned as comprehensively as Tywin Lannister’s had been, Balon Greyjoy had likely lost this war already.

It would not do to carelessly waste lives, though, and so Ned and Robert had been discussing plans while they waited for Ser Barristan and Lord Stannis. That, and simply spending time together as they had during the Rebellion, on those occasions where they had had few duties to occupy their time. It had happened less and less frequently as the war went on, and now, of course, they almost always had duties keeping them apart.

“I do not know how you stand that man,” said Robert, when Ned asked him if Ser Jaime had reached him. He would like to be able to pass the information on when next he wrote Catelyn. “He smirks just like my wife.”

“I’ve served with far less capable men,” Ned said. “And my ward is very fond of him.”

“The dragonspawn, you mean?” Even years later, the mention of anything or anyone related to Rhaegar Targaryen put a darkness into Robert’s countenance.

“Rhaenys Targaryen is a good girl. Neither my wife nor I have ever had reason to complain of her,” Ned said, a bit coldly. “She is not responsible for her father’s actions, and she will be your good-daughter one day.”

Robert scowled. “You can tell the brat her precious knight is well and she can have him back at the end of the war, if he survives. Don’t ask me to like the girl, though, Ned, not even for taking Ser Jaime Lannister off my hands. She can marry my son for the sake of the realm, but that’s it. There’s too much between our families for love.”

Ned suspected that was true – or at least that Robert would _make_ it true. Nevertheless, Rhaenys would have to wed Joffrey Baratheon and secure Robert’s line. Anything else was asking for another Rebellion in a generation. It was more important than one girl’s happiness. He hoped Prince Joffrey was worthy of her.

“Well, never mind that,” Robert went on. “We have an invasion to plan. Just like old times, eh?”

“You’re the king now,” Ned said. “The ironborn are the rebels. We’re on the opposite side.”

“So we are!” Robert laughed. “At least I’m not half as mad as Aerys.” He leaned back in his chair, and said more seriously, “It’s a terrible job, Ned, and of you, me, and Jon Arryn I’m the least suited to do it.”

“Better you than me,” Ned said. The North was his home, for all he’d been raised mostly in the Vale. Though he still felt he couldn’t compare to his father or to Brandon, he was Lord of Winterfell now, and that was the job he intended to do. 

Robert shook his head. “This is what I’m good at. The wars. It’s the rest of it. The petitioners, the accountants, the endless wrangling between a hundred petty lords…I’m keeping up with it for now, but next year? The year after? You’d handle it better.”

“It is done,” Ned replied, ill at ease with the turn of the conversation. “It cannot be undone. You are the king, for better or worse.”

It was too late, though. Robert was staring at his crown, which he had placed on the table in front of him as soon as he and Ned were alone. It looked like he had well and truly sunk into one of his darker moods. Ned was familiar with them from childhood. They rarely lasted long, but while they did there was no talking to him, and even a minor insult could send him into a towering rage.

Ned asked if he might leave – one did not simply walk out on the king – and Robert jerked his head in dismissal. Ned left him to his brooding, and Robert scarcely seemed to notice him go.

He walked along the top of Seagard’s wall without any worry of catching an arrow in the neck, looking over the wreckage of longboats under the water. Teams of men were dredging the bay as quickly as possible, but Ned still thought it likely that the armies would have to be marched elsewhere to board Stannis’ fleet for the short trip to the Iron Islands themselves.

This entire affair was a foolish, futile waste of men, Ned thought suddenly. When he rebelled, he had raised his banners because in murdering Lord Rickard and Brandon, Aerys had proved that nobody was safe under his rule; that there was no longer any law in the Seven Kingdoms but Aerys’ whims. For all his doubts, Robert had been right. He wasn’t as mad as Aerys. Balon Greyjoy was raising his banners for…what? What could this possibly accomplish?

 _The lesson of Torrhen Stark. Kneel and live, or burn._ Robert had no dragons, to be sure, but he still had the might of seven kingdoms to bring to bear against the ironborn.

And for this folly, Ned had left his wife and family to risk his life here. 

“My lord!” A soldier ran up to him, a scrap of paper in hand. “My lord, news by raven.”

Ned scanned the note, and then returned to Robert. Sulk or not, the king needed to know.

“Go away, damn you!” Robert shouted through the door when Ned knocked. “Go bother Lord Stark with your nonsense!”

“Your grace?” Ned called back. “News from the coast.”

Robert opened the door at that. “Well, why didn’t you say so? What is it?”

“The scouts report that the Iron Fleet is sailing on to Fair Isle in its entirety, between the Isle and the mainland, chasing Lord Stannis’ bait.”

A broad, true smile crossed Robert’s face, breaking through his foul mood like sunshine through storm clouds, much to Ned’s relief. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Tywin Lannister was right. Victarion Greyjoy really is a stupid man.”

“Don’t forget that this is your brother’s plan,” Ned reminded him. “You will need to find some way to reward him, come the end of the war.”

Robert snorted. “I can hardly give him Storm’s End twice over.”

“You should not ignore his contributions,” Ned said, because he was a second son himself, and his older brother’s praise had meant a lot to him. “He does well by you.” 

“Yes, yes,” Robert replied, waving off Ned’s insistence. Another promise he would forget, Ned would put money on it. It was a shame, because Stannis was both absolutely loyal to Robert, as loyal as Ned himself, and extremely capable. He would be worthy of respect and commendation even if he wasn’t Robert’s own brother. Even if he personally did not like Lord Stannis – and had yet to meet a man who did. “But the counterattack, Ned. The counterattack!”

And that was the heart of the matter. The Iron Islands had to be taken and Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion smashed. That came first. Ned was getting ahead of himself.

The sooner he did this for Robert, the sooner he could go home.

 

\---

 

The beach provided a reasonable view of the battle. Jaime had stationed himself and his men in the brush a little ways back, waiting and watching for any attempted landings. So far there were none, and no word from his mobilised smallfolk either. He and his men were simply spectators, at the moment.

 _At least we’re spared the sound of horses dying._ He was long since used to the screams of horses, but that didn’t mean he _liked_ them. _That and the screams of burning men._ He shuddered to think of all the ships here on fire, as his father’s ships must have burned.

The Iron Fleet had descended on Stannis, thinking they’d caught him under strength and off guard as he travelled between Fair Isle and the mainland. Stannis, of course, had held firm under their onslaught. Any minute now, the other half of the royal fleet would arrive and the trap would be sprung.

A murmur rippled through his men as the first body washed onto the beach. A dead man, if the pair of arrows sticking out his torso were any indication, and one of their own at that. They’d give him a decent burial.

Shortly afterwards, the first ship sank with a splintery crash. It was growing louder now; sound carried well over open water. Battle must have been joined at the rear of the Iron Fleet. Jaime wished he was out there actually fighting, but there was nothing to be done now. Except for the job he had been assigned to do, obviously.

There were plenty of men in the water now, alive and dead. Some struck out for the opposite shore, which was a difficult swim even when there wasn’t a battle raging. Others let the current sweep them past the beach; Ser Davos and his men would deal with those. Most, however, saw the broad beach as their only hope of survival, and that was where Jaime came in.

He wouldn’t get a good fight out of it after all. That quickly became clear. The men who swam ashore were tired from fighting and swimming, and many were wounded. There was nothing clean in cutting them down, so Jaime amused himself by trying not to kill any of them. At one point he saved a man from drowning; that was a sweet enough thing.

On the channel, the destruction of the Iron Fleet continued. It was more than a defeat, more than a rout. It would take years for the ironborn to recover their resources, if any dared sail against Stannis Baratheon again.

But even after the battle was well and truly won, Jaime’s task continued. It was a long and hard day’s work, hauling injured men from the water and then arranging for their captivity.

Jaime was about to call a halt for the day and return to Faircastle when an officer approached him. “My lord,” he said, “we have a prisoner you must needs see to.”

The man in question wore the kraken sigil, but the remains of his clothes were too fine for him to be just a Greyjoy man. This was an actual Greyjoy. “Some fisherfolk brought him in,” the officer explained. “Found him washed up.”

“This must be Aeron. Balon’s brother,” Jaime realised. He was too old to be one of Balon’s sons, not big enough to be Victarion, and his eyes were normal, so he couldn’t be Euron either. But he _stared_. He stared almost as Aerys had. Jaime misliked it.

“I saw,” Aeron rasped. His voice was harsh from seawater and dead as his eyes were. “I saw my god’s halls.”

“Better for you if you had stayed,” Jaime said. “You’ll be spending the rest of the war in Casterly Rock.” In Lord Tywin’s dungeons, yes. Aeron wasn’t so valuable a hostage as Euron or Victarion, but better than nothing. “Take him away.” _And his staring with him._

Stannis nodded grimly when Jaime reported in and told him the news. “Victarion Greyjoy has likewise been captured alive. He will be held here in Faircastle.”

“Oh, such a shame,” Jaime said. “I know my lord father should love to have him as a guest.” He did not smile as he said it, mind full of burning ships. Only in his mind they burned the green of wildfire.

But Stannis was having none of it. “Victarion Greyjoy is required alive, ser,” he said coldly. His jaw was clenched so tightly it was a wonder the words got out. “His life is Robert’s, to be used for Robert’s purposes, and not to satisfy your lord father’s desire for vengeance.”

That, Jaime managed a smile at. “Have no fear, my lord,” he told Stannis. “He is your prisoner. I dare say Lord Tywin will find another way to pay his debts.” Not to mention it was Euron Greyjoy whose head Lord Tywin wanted most. Victarion had carried out the attack, had burned Lord Tywin’s flagship personally, if the survivors told it true, but any number of men could have done that. The idea had been a gleam in the Crow’s Eye.

“You are to marshal your men on the morrow,” Stannis instructed him. “The Iron Fleet is a threat no longer and we are now free to sail on the Iron Islands. The king awaits us at Seagard.”

_Us?_

Could it be? Was Jaime finally to see some genuine action in this war? A proper sortie, at least? He’d almost given up on such a thing for this war.

If truth be told, he’d almost given up on being trusted to fight beside men in earnest.

 _They remember I left Aerys – throat slit, but never mind – and forget I slew the men who killed Elia and Aegon, and would have killed Rhaenys._ He was not merely a tourney knight. He had not been trained to be merely a tourney knight. He earned his spurs on the field of battle. 

“Don’t look so surprised,” Stannis said. “My brother told me to make use of you. You will do nobody any good minding prisoners here for the rest of the war.”

“It’s all I was good for today,” Jaime pointed out mildly. And not, he felt, unfairly.

Stannis ground his teeth. “You are not a ship’s captain. Should this have failed, you would have been needed on land.”

Perhaps that was so, but Stannis had been far too good for Victarion Greyjoy today. “You seemed to have things well in hand,” Jaime said. He meant it. Coordinating all those ships had not been a simple task, one that Jaime should not have liked to do himself.

But of course taking a compliment with grace was not one of Stannis Baratheon’s skills. He just ground his teeth more, as if he believed Jaime meant to mock him. Eventually he’d wear his teeth down to stubs, and Jaime would certainly mock him for that. “Rest,” Stannis said at last. “Eat. We set sail the day after tomorrow, for the real war.”

Jaime couldn’t wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. Long waits for updates are now a thing, because RL seems dead set on being busy. I do work on this fic every day, though, even if it's just a few sentences. Thanks for both your patience and miscellaneous feedback.


	7. Virtues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some troubles are endured, and Jaime makes a stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three good days of writing in a row means you get a chapter sooner than expected! Warning again for abusive relationships. Mind the tags.

The whims of a king could, from time to time, be wonderful. “I think I’ll take Ser Jaime with me this time,” Robert said. “See that famous swordsmanship in action. Ned here tells me he’s never fought anyone better. _I_ want to see if it’s any good outside a tourney melee.”

There had been fighting at the landing at Lordsport, but Jaime had not been a part of it. Once again he had been told to stay back and make sure Stannis didn’t trip on a shifting deck and accidentally cut his own throat. This was different. This was the final assault on Pyke they were speaking of.

Next to the Baratheon brothers and Jaime himself, Stark looked almost short. He had greeted Stannis with perfect cordiality, then turned to Jaime and said, “Rhaenys has missed you, Ser Jaime. Lady Catelyn as well.”

“Missed his pretty face?” Robert asked.

Jaime raised his eyebrows, Stannis scowled even more darkly than usual – embarrassed, if Jaime were any judge – but Lord Stark had simply turned to the king and said, in a tone too studiously mild to be anything but a severe reprimand, “You are speaking of my lady wife, Robert.”

“No offense intended to you or to Lady Catelyn. Please accept my apologies.”

Jaime wanted to laugh at the hastily-issued apology, but restrained himself. There was still time for Robert to order him to guard Stannis and his siege engines. He was so close now, to one of the things he had dreamed of when he took the white cloak. Cersei, of course, had been first in his thoughts, but he did love battle too.

The order of battle had long since been decided, thanks to Stark and Robert. Jaime was gratified to see that Robert would be leading from near the front, as a king should, though Stark had insisted that Robert take a strong personal guard with him on top of Jaime, Moore and Blount. Robert, everyone knew, was himself a mighty warrior. He had won many a tourney melee on top of his famed battlefield prowess, and was clearly still in excellent shape.

It might be enough to compensate for the general uselessness of Boros Blount.

Meryn Trant was the only Kingsguard not part of the invasion, one way or the other. He had been left behind in the Red Keep to guard Cersei. Jaime wished him well of it.If he did poorly, Jaime would have to find the time to kill him.

Nobody was fool enough to allow the King at the front of battle before the archers had been cleared away and the walls of Pyke breached. The sword could not defend effectively against the bow, or a kettleful of burning pitch, or falling rubble. It took some time, but finally the archers were cleared and the walls were breached, in a crash of masonry and the screams of men. A whole tower had come down. Smoke and stone dust filled the air. Jaime saw the red robes of Thoros of Myr as he charged into the breach with his flaming sword, but then Robert was charging forward himself, urging his men on.

The king laughed like a madman as he smashed his way through the lines at Pyke. Jaime tailed him, trying to stay close enough that nobody would sneak up and stab him, and far enough away that Robert wouldn’t hit him with a careless swing of his warhammer. That was a more likely thing than he might wish. It was magnificent to watch, and Jaime almost wished he had the time.

Instead, he focused on cutting down all the ironmen around him. None could withstand him. He was faster, he was stronger, he was simply _better_ , and the proving was sweet.

It might have been an hour or it might have been only minutes, but eventually, the ironborn broke. They turned and ran for shelter, but they would not find it. Pyke was Robert’s now, and it was only a matter of waiting until Balon Greyjoy realised it.

The notice of surrender came shortly thereafter.

Nobody stopped to change. Jaime had suffered no worse than a few bruises, though he had twisted his ankle on a loose stone. His white cloak was absolutely ruined, caked with grey dust and stained brown-red with blood. Someone had landed a good enough hit on the king to dent his armour, but Robert’s only concession was to loosen the strap on the offending piece and wipe the blood and grime from his face.

“Someone fetch me Lord Mormont,” Robert bellowed. “I want to knight that man before we go!”

Mormont, when he appeared, looked ghastly. Something had hit him hard in the face during the battle – his lip was split, his nose was broken, and a spectacular bruise was forming on his jaw. He was also on a post-battle high, and he grinned at the king with bloody teeth as he took a knee.

“You worship the old gods?” Robert asked.

“Yes, your grace.”

“I wasn’t going to insist on vigils anyway. Any knight can make a knight.”

“I am honoured, your grace.”

“Ser Jaime, your sword.” Any knight could make a knight, but Robert would find it difficult to tap Mormont’s shoulders with a warhammer. Not without breaking his collarbones. Jaime duly handed his sword over, properly sheathed. Robert drew it and turned back to Mormont. “Do you swear before the sight of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your liege lord and your king, to fight bravely when needed and to do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or dangerous they might be?”

“I do so swear,” said Mormont, and with a tap on each shoulder from Jaime’s sword, arose as Ser Jorah Mormont. He’d be something of an oddity in the North; Jaime had learned early on that though Northerners liked a joust and a melee as much as any southerner, their tourneys were very different. There was no pageantry, no fine armour, no Queen of Love and Beauty – just jousting, the melee, and as much ale as a man could drink. Knights and all their trappings were for the south.

He himself could knight a man, Jaime realised. It had never occurred to him before. Any knight could make a knight, even one who’d murdered his king. He’d just never felt the desire to knight anyone. Not a promising squire nor a valiant soldier. Maybe he would, one day. _Would any man be proud that I had knighted them, as I was proud to be knighted by Ser Arthur?_

He wondered if Mormont was proud. Robert Baratheon was no Arthur Dayne, to be sure, but being knighted by the king himself was not something many men could boast of.

There was no shame in it, either, as Jaime was ashamed to have sworn to Aerys. _The vows were worthy. Aerys wasn’t._

“We’re done here,” Robert said, handing Jaime back his sword and snapping his mind back to the present. “Come, I have a surrender to accept. And somebody find Lord Stark!”

 

\---

 

As Ned followed Robert into the hall of the Great Keep of Pyke, all he felt was relief. The war was over. He had survived. In less than a month he should be home in Winterfell with Catelyn and the children.

A lean, hard-looking man waited at the end of the hall. He still wore a crown – a driftwood crown – and Ned saw Robert’s shoulders tense as he realised. “Well?” Robert snarled, coming to a halt in front of the would-have-been king.

Balon Greyjoy stood, only to immediately take a knee and hold that wooden crown out to Robert. “Your grace,” he said. His voice was level, but he could not hide how his eyes burned with loathing.

“Good,” said Robert. “I do accept your surrender and confirm you as Lord of the Iron Islands. With a few conditions.” They were the usual, armies to be disbanded, some reparations to be paid…and a hostage to be taken. “Your heir, for one.”

“I have but one son remaining to me,” Greyjoy said. “My heir was killed yesterday when the south tower fell.”

“Then it’s that son I’ll take,” Robert declared. He still had not allowed Greyjoy to stand. “Babe in arms or man grown, I will have a hostage from you. He’ll live in Winterfell with Lord Stark, until such time as you can be trusted.”

Which would be never, Ned knew. Although Robert was at heart a forgiving man – his hatred for Rhaegar Targaryen was a dramatic exception – and he would likely return Greyjoy’s heir in ten or fifteen years, once the boy had well and truly become a man.

When Theon Greyjoy was escorted to Ned under guard, Ned’s heart sank. Balon Greyjoy’s last remaining son was a child no older than Rhaenys, dark-haired, skinny, and sullen. _He has recently lost two brothers,_ Ned reminded himself, _and now Robert is sending him away from his home as a hostage. I was sullen too, when I first left Winterfell, and father only sent me to foster._ Taking hostages was fair by every custom of war, but Ned did not trust that Balon Greyjoy valued his son’s life – and Ned had no particular wish to execute a child.

The boy was in shock, too, scarcely reacting as Ned told him of his fate. “You should say farewell to your lady mother and your sister,” Ned said after he was done explaining. "You will not see them again for a long time."

“My mother isn’t speaking,” young Theon said in an eerily flat voice. “She’s crying over Rodrik and Maron. And Asha hates me.”

“Very well,” Ned replied. “I will permit you to write to them later, if you should wish. In the meantime, pack warm clothing for the journey. The North is far colder than these isles, even during summer. We leave tomorrow.”

He wanted to reassure the boy, to tell him that he would not be lonely or uncared-for in Winterfell. But with two brothers dead, his home in ruins, and facing separation from everything he knew and loved, Ned knew there was little comfort to be given. Perhaps on the ship back, he would be better able to help. Or perhaps he would not, since he was as much captor as guardian.

Later, having written to Catelyn to inform her of both his imminent return and the need to prepare a cell for his latest ward, he went in search of Robert. Instead, he found Ser Jaime, alone in the hall where Balon Greyjoy had surrendered, staring at the driftwood crown Robert had carelessly put down on a table and none had dared touch since.

“If a man cared to be a king here, all they need do is go down to the beach,” Ser Jaime said. There was a strange smile on his face, and for all the younger man was in white armour now, Ned was reminded of Jaime Lannister as he had first met him, arrogant and untrustworthy, sworn protector of a mad king. Not for nothing had Ned once suspected him of murdering Aerys himself. “There’s enough wood there for a hundred thousand crowns.”

“A hundred thousand kings would prove a bit much work for you and your sworn brothers, I fear,” Ned replied. “Will you be returning to Winterfell with my men?”

Ser Jaime shook his head regretfully. “The king is holding another tourney. In Lannisport again. He has already sent instructions to my father, and he has requested that I compete.”

Ned felt a spike of irritation at Robert. If he was going to assign Ser Jaime to Rhaenys, then Ser Jaime should be at Winterfell with her. His months of leave had turned into a long absence indeed. Nor was a knight of the Kingsguard a performing bear for Robert’s entertainment. Yet a royal command was a royal command, and there was in the end little harm to it. “It is another opportunity to see your brother, is it not?” Ned asked. Ser Jaime had spoken often and fondly of his younger brother.

On the other hand, Ned would much prefer Ser Jaime to stay independent of his father, and shared Ser Barristan’s concerns about the queen’s influence.

“Tyrion, yes,” Ser Jaime said, but his smile faded. “Please give my regards to Rhaenys, and your lady wife too. I’ll return as soon as the tourney is over, unless perhaps Dorne declares its independence as well.”

Ned hoped not. Dorne was far too hot, and far too far from Winterfell. “I shall expect you within three turns, then,” he said. “Good fortune to you in the tourney.”

Ser Jaime thanked him and went about his own duties. Ned, too, had to return to his original quest to find Robert. He said those farewells, not knowing how many years it would be before he saw his friend again. The North was not the sort of place Robert would enjoy visiting, save for the hunting. Nor did Ned want his king to so much as lay eyes on Jon Snow.

Ned was in no hurry to make another visit south, either.

When he returned to his rooms for his final night on Pyke, Jory Cassel was waiting with a small bag. “Ser Jaime brought it, my lord,” he said. “He said it’s from Lord Hoster at the last tourney at Lannisport, and this is the first chance he had to pass it on to its intended recipients.”

Ned looked inside. The bag contained two small dolls – one a soldier, the other a lady – and several folded sheets of parchment, slightly crumpled, but still sealed and addressed to Catelyn. _How considerate_ , he thought, and he meant both his goodfather and the knight who’d carried these small presents through a war.

 

\---

 

Never had Catelyn been so happy to receive a raven. She had recognised her husband’s hand on the note, which had provided immediate relief, but her hopes upon opening the letter were fulfilled within the first line.

_The war is won and I am returning to Winterfell with all haste._

He could not be home soon enough for her liking. Her pregnancy was advanced, and she thought it likely that she would give birth in her husband’s absence for a second time. Even if he was returning home now, the babe might still be born before his arrival.

It grieved Catelyn – those first days with Sansa had been more than good, with Ned beside her to help – but she had managed with Robb and she would manage again. This time, at least, she had the comfort of knowing her husband would return soon. 

They had decided before Sansa was born that their next son would be named Brandon. Catelyn still hoped to give Ned that son, to give Robb a trueborn brother. For a daughter, she had suggested the name Arya in her letter, but as she eagerly skimmed through Ned’s letter, she saw no mention of the babe she had told him of. In fact, she saw no mention of her last letter at all. Perhaps the raven had gone astray, as they occasionally did. _It will be a surprise, then_ , she thought sadly. Ned would be as sorry as he was pleased. It wasn’t his fault, only his duty.

_Robert has given me custody of Balon Greyjoy’s sole remaining son as hostage and ward,_ Ned’s letter continued. _Theon Greyjoy is a lad of ten years. He will need a cell of his own._

That annoyed Catelyn. Robert made ever more demands of her husband. First Rhaenys, now a hostage Greyjoy. Rhaenys was an honour – deposed and decimated family or no, the girl would be queen. Ned and Catelyn had been entrusted with raising a queen.

A hostage was a different matter. A hostage was a burden. Ned would be a long time praying before his heart tree over the matter, even if he was never called to take the boy’s head.

Though he still would not share any details with her, she knew the events at King’s Landing, the murder of Rhaenys’ brother Aegon, still troubled him deeply. Nor did she think Ned would have shared that fact with the king. She _knew_ Ned would not have shared that with the king. 

The rest of the letter contained a brief description of the fighting he’d been in. There was a lot of it. More than she would have liked. _He is all right_ , she reminded herself, _he is coming back to us._ Ser Jaime had passed on his regards too, but would apparently not be returning until after Robert’s victory tourney. He too would be returning, though, and was likewise uninjured.

Then she went to find Robb and Sansa, Rhaenys and even Jon Snow. They all needed to hear this from her.

She found Sansa and Rhaenys first, only a few rooms down the hall. At two, Sansa was a demanding toddler, forever wanting attention, from her nurse, from her brother (and, to Catelyn’s dismay, her bastard brother too), her foster sister, and from Catelyn herself. At the moment, she was happily occupied with a doll, while Rhaenys chalked a picture on a slate.

“Mama!” Sansa said when she noticed Catelyn, pushed herself to her feet and toddled over.

Catelyn could not pick her up, not with her belly so full of a little Brandon or a little Arya, but she reached down to hold her daughter’s hand. “I have just had a letter from Lord Eddard,” she said to Rhaenys. “He is returning home.”

Her ward’s eyes widened, and she put down her slate and chalk. “He is?” Rhaenys asked, as if she couldn’t quite believe it. “Truly?”

From this angle, Catelyn could see Rhaenys had drawn a picture of the heart tree. It was quite good for a girl of almost ten, but the face on the tree looked, if anything, even more sinister than Catelyn already found it.

A tug on her skirts indicated that Sansa wanted something. “Papa?” the little girl asked. Sansa had asked that almost every night since Ned had left, and got upset when her father did not appear to tell her a story or give her a kiss.

“Yes,” Catelyn said. “Your father will be home soon.” Sansa smiled. Catelyn thought there were few things as beautiful as her daughter’s smile, though she knew Sansa would ask for her father again that evening and Catelyn would have to soothe her tears again.

“Do Robb and Jon know?” Rhaenys asked. Already it seemed that some of the worry that had hung over her was dissipating.

“I am on my way to tell them,” Catelyn replied. “You two were closest.”

Rhaenys nodded. “They’re in the yard. Thank you for telling me, Lady Catelyn.”

Catelyn disentangled herself from her daughter, leaving her to her dolls, and left to find the boys. While telling Robb the news could never bring her anything but joy, seeing Jon Snow never brought her anything but pain. She could hardly stand to look at him. She had thought it might be easier with Ned gone, if she didn’t have to see her husband and his bastard together, without the reminder of how much the boy looked like the Starks. As her trueborn son, heir to Winterfell, did not.

But she had been wrong. It hurt even worse. The bastard was in her home while her husband was not. The bastard would stay, and she hadn’t been sure her husband would come back.

_What if he brings home another one?_ Catelyn had thought, more than once, ashamed of how little she trusted Ned in this. _I could not bear it. I could live knowing that he had loved another, if only her son didn’t exist._

_What if Ned falls in love again?_ That was her worst fear. He had done so before. He could do so again. _I could not bear it._

When Ned wed her in Riverrun, he had sworn to her that he loved no other; that his heart was free to give as his hand was. He might have lied to her even then, but Catelyn had taken him at his word and dreamed of earning his affections. Like a silly girl. She and Lysa had been quite a pair. But in the weeks after their wedding her new husband had gone to the bed of another woman.

Ned was not the sort of man to lie with other women casually. He was no frequenter of brothels, nor possessed of a roving eye. She knew that now. He respected her honour, in every way but the one. She knew that too.

It could only have been love. To keep that woman’s son here, as well, in defiance of all custom, a threat to Robb, to Sansa, to her unborn babe – it had to have been love. Love developed over mere weeks, while it had taken Catelyn that amount of time just to make him smile. Months before he sought her bed with enthusiasm. More than a year before he said he loved her.

Gods help her, but she was jealous. Jealous, and humiliated, and afraid.

Sure enough, Robb was with his bastard brother in the yard, as Rhaenys had said. They were playing at swords, hitting at each other with sticks. _Don’t you dare hurt my son_ , she thought every time Jon Snow swung his stick at Robb. It was funny - Edmure and Petyr had played the same when they were children at Riverrun, but then she had only laughed.

No matter how she reminded herself that Jon Snow was still a boy of five, and not responsible for his own presence at Winterfell, it never seemed to make a difference. He would not be a boy of five forever. Nor could she see how he would be content to remain a bastard if he knew what he might have inherited, had his father wed his mother rather than her.

“Robb,” she called, once she was in earshot. The boys dropped their sticks immediately. Robb ran over to her, while Jon Snow stayed back, not meeting her eyes. That suited Catelyn well. “There has been news by raven. The war is over and your father is coming home.” She spoke loudly enough for Jon Snow to hear her as well, though she couldn’t look at him. Not after referring to Ned as the bastard’s father, even obliquely.

“Father’s coming back?” Robb asked excitedly. “When? Did he fight in any battles? Did he win the war?”

“Yes, he did,” Catelyn told her son. “He is not hurt, and he did say that he fought in some battles, at Seagard and Pyke.”

“Where’s Seagard?”

“Find it on a map for me. Ask Maester Luwin first, I don’t want you tearing up his papers by accident.” Catelyn smiled and smoothed down Robb’s hair. “He’ll be back in a few weeks, and by then you’ll have learned about where he’s been, so he won’t have to stop in the middle of a story and tell you.”

Robb nodded and ran off, taking Jon Snow with him. Catelyn watched them go, and then went to tell the household staff that their lord would be returning soon. There was a lot to do before then.

_Hurry, little one,_ she thought to her babe. _I want to greet your father on my feet and present you to him at the door._

 

\---

 

By the time they docked in Lannisport, Jaime had had a bellyful of Robert Baratheon, the First of his Name. Anyone was tolerable compare to Aerys, it was true, but on his own merits Robert wasn’t much to boast of.

“And her teats!” Robert said. “She had the biggest teats I’ve ever held.”

He liked to do this. Robert despised him and despised Cersei as well. So he took pleasure in telling Jaime about all the women he’d fucked, especially the ones he’d fucked after he’d wed Cersei. Jaime had no choice but to stand there and listen.

_I put my sword through Aerys’ throat_ , he thought resentfully. _I cut the royal neck so deep I hit bone. He never saw it coming. You wouldn’t either, Robert Baratheon._

That was just his pride speaking to him, and his outrage on his sister’s behalf. He wasn’t very good at ignoring it, but he’d learned at least a little restraint. There was a tourney to compete in; Tyrion and Cersei both would be there; between those things the next few weeks could be endured. After that he would return to Winterfell, and avoid the king for years.

Lannisport had been cleaned up substantially in the months since Jaime had last been there. Decorations were up, merchants had returned in force, and a festive air buzzed through the town. It was, if anything, more lively than the last tourney had been. Being at home always cheered Jaime up somewhat.

“You are relieved, Ser Jaime,” Ser Preston told Jaime once they’d been welcomed back to Casterly Rock by Lord Tywin. “I will guard the king.” Any actual relief Jaime might have felt at escaping Robert’s lurid tales faded as his father caught his eyes. Jaime had seen that look before, thankfully not often directed at him.

Lord Tywin was furious about something.

“A word with you, Jaime,” Lord Tywin said, and Jaime dutifully trailed him to his father’s solar. Lord Tywin sat behind his desk, and motioned for Jaime to sit as well. Despite his best instincts, Jaime closed the door behind him before he sat. There would be no easy escape now. 

“What is it?” he asked, a terrible sinking feeling in his gut.

“Did you know?” Lord Tywin asked.

“Know what?”

“Do not play coy with me. Did you know that your brother –“ Lord Tywin said the words _your brother_ in the same tone he reserved for the names _Ellyn Tarbeck_ and _Aerys Targaryen_ – “wed a whore?”

For an instant he considered lying. He’d deceived his father by omission before, although lying to his face was another matter. But no. His father had to know of Jaime’s involvement. If he didn’t, Jaime would not be sitting here, feeling like he was fifteen years old again and realising that for the very first time his father would be angry with _him_.

“She wasn’t a whore,” Jaime said instead. “Just a crofter’s daughter. We saved her from some bandits and took her back home.”

“She was a whore,” Tywin repeated. “You cannot possibly be so foolish as to believe any woman would wed Tyrion for reasons other than money. Which makes the girl a whore.” He fixed Jaime with a level gaze that had frightened grown men from feast tables. “When did you learn of this travesty?”

Honesty, Jaime decided, would probably serve him best here. “After the tourney. I went to find Tyrion to say goodbye. I told him to get the marriage annulled –“

“You conspired with your brother to hide this from me.”

There was nothing Jaime could say to that. It was true, after all. 

“The girl has been dealt with,” Lord Tywin said once he had established Jaime’s guilt through his silence. “You will do your part and tell your brother that his _wife_ was a whore you hired on his behalf.”

Now desperately afraid for his brother, Jaime asked, “What did you do to her?”

“I arranged for a demonstration,” Lord Tywin said coldly. The words failed to reassure Jaime in the slightest. “But he persists in his disbelief. You will tell him, and he will believe you.”

“No,” said Jaime.

Lord Tywin looked at him.

Jaime summoned up all his courage. “No,” he repeated. “I won’t do it.”

“You will. For the good of the family. You are a Lannister, your brother is a Lannister, and Lannisters do not wed whores.” Lord Tywin fixed Jaime with another terrible glare. “Nor will I tolerate you defending a whore’s honour to me.”

“She wasn’t a whore, and I won’t lie to him,” Jaime insisted. It was easier the third time. “I don’t want anything to do with this.”

For an agonising minute, Lord Tywin did not reply.

“Very well, ser,” he said at last. “You shall have your wish. But if that is the case, you will not make mention of this. Not to me, not to anyone. I want this forgotten, Jaime, and I will not have any member of this family mocked. You may go.”

Jaime couldn’t get through the door fast enough.

_Not to anyone?_ he thought, as he walked as quickly as he could to his brother’s room. _Bugger that. What in all the hells was a_ demonstration _? What had happened to Tyrion?_

“Jaime,” Tyrion said by way of greeting. He looked thoroughly miserable, and the dark shadows of exhaustion under his eyes certainly didn’t add to his appearance. Unfortunately, Jaime doubted his brother had been kept awake all night by a particularly fascinating book. “I missed you when the king arrived.”

Tyrion couldn’t even make a joke about being easy to miss in a crowd. This was bad. Jaime shut the door behind him. “What happened?” he asked. 

“He found out,” Tyrion replied. “Like you said.” 

“Like I said? Why didn’t you _annul it_ like I said?” Jaime snapped, worry turning to anger. “How could you be so stupid?”

Then Tyrion told him about the _demonstration_.

“Gods,” Jaime said. He’d had to sit down halfway through Tyrion’s recounting. He felt sick.  _We saved the girl from bandits, but delivered her to rapers anyway._ “Tyrion, I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Tyrion. “You were right.” Upset as he seemed to be, his eyes were dry and his voice only trembled slightly. Jaime didn’t know how he could bear it. He himself was close enough to becoming kingslayer twice over for Robert’s treatment of Cersei.

“Still,” Jaime said, remembering Princess Elia and what had happened to her, “Father should not have done that.”

What would Ser Arthur have done in this situation? Or Ser Barristan? Ned Stark, even, who Jaime knew despised Lord Tywin? He rather thought all three men would see Jaime’s father beheaded if they could.

Jaime couldn’t do that, though – no man was so accursed as the kinslayer. Nor would he let even such honourable men do his killing for him.

He would have to leave it to Tyrion. This was Tyrion’s debt to pay, however he saw fit. And Tyrion was clever, far more than Jaime, he could work something out.  _Once again I stand by while a woman is raped behind closed doors_. Jaime had killed Aerys; he’d killed Clegane, but he could not kill his father.

“Was she a whore?” Tyrion asked. “Father said…” 

Their father had said for Jaime to lie, too. “Did she ask you to pay her?”

Tyrion shook his head.

Jaime stood up to leave. “Then she wasn’t a whore, little brother. Whores always ask for payment.”

 

\---

 

Cersei had enjoyed the months she had spent without Robert.

No lumbering half-wit had tried to steal her son from her. No great stinking pig climbed into her bed and drunkenly demanded to make a second. She wanted another son, to be sure, but not from Robert. Never from Robert.

Perhaps now she would have her chance. Jaime was still in the king’s party. He had won some glory in the assault on Pyke, she had been told, and the king was rewarding him by allowing him to participate in the tourney before his return to Winterfell. It was a measly sort of reward, as much insult as honour, but Cersei had vowed she would enjoy every stolen moment with her brother.

If she was very careful, Robert might even be more open to recalling Jaime to King’s Landing. How could anyone doubt him now, her fierce golden knight?

Except, she saw as she arrived at Casterly Rock and knelt briefly before her husband, Jaime was wearing white again. In Casterly Rock. Last time, he had only worn white to joust. Not only that, he was standing as far from their father as he could reasonably manage. _Something is amiss_.

It took a little while to intimidate the story out of one of her bedmaids. Lord Tywin had given orders to keep it quiet. Timid little mice that they were, she cowed them just as easily.

She raised the issue late that night, after Jaime had fucked her into the mattress, while they waited for him to be ready again. Robert, thank all the gods, had found a serving woman more interesting this evening. Cersei would still have to dispose of the woman, of course, but at least it gave her more time with Jaime. “I hear you quarrelled with Father.”

“If by quarrelled you mean I refused to go along with his plans, yes,” Jaime said grimly. “I’ve done it before.”

For her. Not for Tyrion. Cersei didn’t intend to share Jaime with Tyrion. It was bad enough she had to share him with a white cloak, and the longer he wore it, the more different he seemed. He would never have defied their father for anyone but her before he put on that cloak.

Sometimes it felt like she was losing him, even when he was right beside her.

“You should have just lied,” she said. “Father was right. Tyrion would have made a spectacle of himself, wedding some lowborn slut. Can you imagine? The future lady of Casterly Rock, a whore.”

“A crofter’s daughter. Father should just have had the marriage annulled and sent the girl away,” Jaime argued. “He didn’t have to do it like that. It was cruel.”

“After Grandfather’s mistress?” The story of how Tywin had seen off Tytos Lannister’s mistress was still legend in Lannisport.

“It doesn’t change anything. Tyrion’s still a boy, and the girl wasn’t much older than he is.” He frowned. “What if someone talks? The Starks already hate us, Stannis Baratheon too, and if Lord Arryn is the man Ned Stark says he is I wouldn’t think he likes Father either.”

“What _if_ someone talks?” Cersei asked, perplexed. “Let them talk. The more they hear, the less likely anyone will be to cross us. They _should_ be scared.”

“There are lots of brave men out there,” Jaime said. “Brave men who hate our family. We might need allies one day.”

Cersei laughed. “Stick to swordplay, dear brother. It’s what you’re best at.” She put her hand between his legs. “Or…”

He left her well before dawn, saying that he wanted a few hours of sleep before the jousting began on the morrow. She too needed to rest, in preparation for a long and wearisome day of smiling on Robert’s arm.

To her delight, however, she found that Robert planned to enter the melee. If she were very fortunate, he might die in it. Then she could get rid of Jon Arryn and become regent herself. It was a pleasant daydream – no more than a daydream, though, for Joffrey was very young still and her father would undoubtedly have to be appointed Hand and regent.

She sat on the dais, next to Robert’s empty seat, and felt every bit the queen. _No one will ever take this from me._

Robert actually won the melee. He broke his arm and cracked some ribs in the process. “This is how we defeated the Greyjoys!” he shouted to the crowd. “The men of this melee have wounded me more gravely than any of the ironborn managed all through the war!” Then he split his winnings between some minor nobles and hedge knights he thought had performed valiantly, and the crowd cheered for their king.

_Pathetic_ , Cersei thought. She would not have Joffrey pandering to the crowds like this.

It was the jousting she looked forwards to most, even more than watching men hit Robert with sticks. Over the next few days Jaime swept all before him, just as he had at the last tourney. She would have another crown of flowers soon.

Jaime himself wasn’t so sure. “I’m very good,” he said to her. “But Ser Barristan is too, and Ser Jorah Mormont is riding well at the moment as well. Far better than he ever has in his life.”

“He has a lady love,” Cersei sneered. “Have you seen? A Hightower girl, half his age, if that.”

Jaime shrugged. “It matters not to me. Mormont can ride for his lady love and I will ride for mine.”

She gave him her favour for those words, metaphorically speaking, and the next morning he unseated Ser Barristan in the penultimate match. Cersei liked seeing Ser Barristan lose. She knew who was responsible for keeping Jaime in Winterfell, even when she was thwarted at every turn in her efforts to get him back. It was right that Jaime got some of his own back.

The final match came down to Jaime and that Mormont knight. “I knighted him myself,” Robert told her. Her husband had paid her only the bare minimum of attention since she had arrived at Casterly Rock, but it was inevitable that he would eventually try and talk to her – and then try to fuck her that evening. “He charged into the breach at Pyke, right behind Thoros! Right into the front lines!”

“How brave,” Cersei said.

“I fancy him for a win here, my lady,” Robert said, and Cersei kept her polite smile fixed on her face before turning to settle Joffrey in his seat. Her son preferred the melee to the jousting. He was starting to get restless.

Not Cersei. She watched as Jaime and Mormont broke their lances against each other once, twice…three times. Four. Five. She caught Jaime’s eye and smiled at him. Both lances broke for a sixth time, then a seventh. Elsewhere in the stands, Cersei saw the Hightower girl cheering. It was amazing how men acted for a pretty face and a partially exposed pair of teats.

Eight times they broke lances, and after the ninth, Robert called a halt. “Enough!” he cried. “It’s clear they’re evenly matched! But the title must go to one, and so I declare Ser Jorah the winner of this tourney.”

The smallfolk cheered for their new champion, while Cersei fumed. Robert had given the win to Mormont to spite her, she knew. Jaime feigned graciousness well. There would be other tourneys. There were things more important than tourneys. This was a petty slight, no more.

Just as she feared, Robert tried to fuck her that night. She poured more wine down his throat, sucked his cock until he passed out in a drunken stupor, and prayed for a second son with his father’s golden hair and talent for jousting.

 

\---

 

Ser Barristan was the next man to ask Jaime for a quiet word, once they were both off duty for the night. It couldn’t be any worse than the discussion with his father, who Jaime had not spoken a word to since their conversation about Tyrion.

“The king wishes for you to return to Winterfell,” Ser Barristan said, confirming for the last time his orders.  _Winterfell, Winterfell, Winterfell. They say it like they think they might have to drag me there kicking and screaming, or as if Robert might change his mind between now and tomorrow._  “Do you have any objections?”

“No,” said Jaime. He thought of Robert’s lurid stories and added, “None whatsoever.”

He’d miss Cersei, but he would be happier away from the Red Keep. His sister would be fine as long as she had Joffrey.

“Good.” Ser Barristan looked pleased. “I have been impressed by the reports I’ve had of you from both Lord Stark and Lord Baratheon. You will be recalled to King’s Landing in time, but for now I think everyone would be happiest if you were to stay in the North.”

Except for his siblings. And his father, Jaime supposed, but Jaime was just as eager to get away from Lord Tywin as he was Robert.

_Defend all women._ The oaths did not say _stand by while women are raped and avenge them later._

_Defend the weak_. He had to leave Tyrion here. With their father.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Lady Rhaenys,” he said, wishing he could forget how helpless he was to help his brother. “Lord Stark tells me I’ve been missed.” He could only imagine how anxious the poor girl had been. She had probably trailed Jon Snow all over the castle, jumping at shadows, half-smothering the boy and driving Lady Catelyn to distraction.

He was, at least, able to help Rhaenys.

“That is a helpful attitude to have,” Ser Barristan said. “Most people see the white cloaks and think of glory, and forget that our work is often tedious. When do you plan to depart?”

“Tomorrow morning, at first light.” He had a horse, he had supplies, he had warm clothing packed; all that was left was to say his goodbyes. “I’ll be at Winterfell in less than a moon’s turn.”

“Very well. Travel safely and guard her ladyship to the best of your abilities.”

“I will, Lord Commander.”

Jaime managed to catch up to Tyrion before his brother retired for the night. It wasn’t too difficult; Tyrion had been reading even more avidly than was his usual wont. Jaime knew the signs of a man trying to keep his mind on anything but his situation.

“I’m leaving first thing tomorrow,” he said to Tyrion, who didn’t look up as Jaime entered the room. “Will you be all right?”

“Will it make a difference what I say?” Tyrion asked bitterly in return.

“No,” Jaime admitted. “I still have to leave.”

Tyrion sighed. “I’ll be fine.” His voice was hoarse, and Jaime wondered if his brother had wept over this when nobody else could see.

“You keep telling yourself that,” Jaime said. “It’ll be true eventually.”

“I don’t know where he sent her,” Tyrion said suddenly, eyes fixed on the page in front of him. “I don’t know where she is, or if she’s all right. You said Father would kill her.”

“She probably isn’t all right,” Jaime said bluntly. “You’re not. But Father wouldn’t have given her any money if he intended to have her killed.” One of his father’s cruellest touches in the whole sordid affair. “It’s blood money, but it still buys food and shelter. She might still build a life for herself.”

Jaime hoped Tysha the crofter’s daughter lived and recovered, but he doubted it. There was nothing either he or Tyrion could do about it. They could probably never even find the girl. Even if by some miracle they did, Tyrion could never wed her again, not after what Lord Tywin had done. Not even if he hadn’t. Tyrion would be Lord of Casterly Rock one day, and Cersei had been right. No crofter’s daughter could become Lady Lannister.

But saying it would do no good. His brother looked absolutely devastated anyway. And well he might.

“I’ll write to you,” Jaime promised. “Would you like me to do that?”

“I would like that,” Tyrion said. He still sounded hoarse and still hadn’t taken his eyes from the page – but Jaime doubted he’d read a single word. His brother read faster than that. “Don’t strain your sword hand.”

“On the contrary. If I can manage a sword, I can manage a quill.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Finally, Tyrion managed a very small smile. “Thank you, Jaime.”

“Good luck with Father,” Jaime said. “I’ll write you from Winterfell.”

 

\---

 

Summer had well and truly arrived in the North. The weather was fair, the smallfolk were in the fields, and Ned was almost home.

Theon Greyjoy looked almost happy. Ned had spent a little time with the lad on the way back. The boy was an excellent shot with the sling and had a better eye with the bow; only the relative lack of strength in his arms and back compromised him as an archer. He was a poor rider, though necessity had forced him to improve rapidly.

He was still sullen, though polite enough to Ned. Ned would know more after he introduced Theon to the children and, later, saw him at his lessons.

“My own children are younger than you,” he had told Theon. “My sons are some five years your junior, and I am afraid you will not find them to be suitable companions for some years. My daughter is hardly more than a babe in arms. My other ward, however, is your age.”

Theon had barely reacted. Ned had discovered over the next few days that his newest ward had no love for his own deceased brothers. The idea of four foster siblings did not appeal to him in the slightest. The prospect of a warm bath and a proper roof over his head, on the other hand, seemed to cheer him dramatically.

Ned struggled to remember that Theon Greyjoy was a hostage. He was owed care and respect, but he should not grow too close, lest he stay his hand at a critical moment. It was not a situation such as with Rhaenys Targaryen.

They rode through the winter town, which had returned to its summer level of inhabitation. Signs of low occupancy were starting to show in missing shingles and spiderwebs.

Winterfell itself was abuzz. Inside the gates his family were waiting. Robb was there, bouncing up and down on his feet. Sansa was much bigger than he recalled, her bright hair longer. She was staring at the procession with wide, bright eyes. Rhaenys and Jon stood a little apart. Rhaenys seemed to be crying, and Jon torn between comforting her and waiting with Robb.

Catelyn was at the door, and in her arms…

“Winterfell is yours, my lord,” she said when he reached her. “This is your daughter, Arya.”

“My daughter? Catelyn, what…?” he asked, stunned. The infant his lady wife had handed to him was brown-haired and grey-eyed, as Ned and Jon were, and probably only a week or two old. “I was not expecting…I should have been here.”

Catelyn smiled at him. “I did write, my lord. My letter, I fear, did not make it to you. Do you like her?”

“She’s beautiful,” he said, and Arya started to yell. She was beautiful even red-faced and angry.

Sansa pulled at the leg of his breeches then. “Papa!” she said. The other children were starting to crowd around too – Rhaenys was smiling again, eyes still a bit red, and the boys looked like they might burst from questions.

“Let’s go inside,” Ned said. “It seems as though I have some introductions to make.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank you all enough for your feedback, I really can't.


	8. Dividing Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lannisters are increasingly working at cross-purposes; Stark family life becomes less idyllic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, now that definitely took too long for me to write. Sorry everyone! No new warnings or content notes.

Theon did not like Winterfell.

“I will not have that sort of behaviour from you,” Lord Stark said severely. “You are to treat the women of this castle with respect, from the serving girls to my lady wife.”

It had only been a joke. Rodrik used to say that sort of thing all the time to the thralls in Pyke and nobody had ever scolded _him_ for it. He didn’t see why Lord Stark should care what Theon called the servants.

“Do you understand?” Lord Stark’s expression never changed. He never looked angry or raised his voice. It scared Theon a bit, because he couldn’t tell when he’d done something wrong. But then again, Lord Stark hadn’t hit him yet either, not even a clip around the ear. He’d rather keep it that way as long as possible.

“Yes, Lord Stark,” he said, even though he didn’t really.

“Good,” Lord Stark said. “You will apologise. Nor will you join us for the meal tonight. Bread and water will be brought to you in your cell. You may go.”

Theon went.

He made his apologies like he had been ordered, but dawdled on his way to his cell. On his way back, he saw Lord Stark’s sons playing in the mud, well away from the steaming pools. Theon hadn’t known the mud would be hot, the first time he tried to play with them, and burned his hands. Robb called him over.

Robb Stark was one of the few good things about Winterfell. He at least seemed to want Theon around, even if he was five and not that interesting. “Did Father scold you?” the boy asked. “Rhaenys told Jon you said something mean to one of the maids.”

Jon Snow, Stark's bastard son, stared resentfully at Theon. Theon didn’t see what the bastard had to be upset about – Lord Stark didn’t treat his bastard much different to his heir. Robb Stark and Jon Snow played together, went to lessons together, and spent time with their sisters together, as long as Lady Stark wasn’t nearby. He was treated better than Theon was, and Snow was just a bastard. 

Lady Stark didn’t like it, but she didn’t like Theon either. It was because Lord Stark hadn’t wanted to take him, even though the king had ordered it. So Lady Stark didn’t want him there, and made no secret of it. She looked at him just like she looked at Jon Snow, and that wasn't fair. 

As for Rhaenys Targaryen, Lord Stark’s other ward, she liked him no more than the bastard or Lady Stark did. She had her nose in the air all the time, just because she was going to marry the prince and be queen one day, and she was already the Lady of Dragonstone, even if she'd never been there. They’d already fought over one of her cats when he’d stepped on its tail.

“I said sorry,” Theon told Robb. He’d bowed to a serving woman and asked if _she_ would forgive _him_ for his words. His father would have clipped him around the ear for that, said it wasn’t befitting. He was the heir to the Iron Islands now, so it was even less fitting, Theon supposed. “But I’m not having the evening meal with you anyway. Your father said so.”

“Oh,” said Robb, but he didn’t sound too upset. And Robb liked him better than just about anyone else in Winterfell.

Jon Snow was still scowling at him. Theon couldn’t stand it anymore. “You’re lucky to be here at all,” Theon said to him. “You’re a bastard. Lord Stark probably only took you because he had to. It’s not like he actually wants you here.” 

Snow punched him in the gut. Hard. Theon was so shocked he didn’t block the next blow, when the younger boy drove a knee into Theon’s groin as well. He wouldn’t have stopped the third hit either, Snow’s small fist heading for his cheekbone, if Robb Stark hadn’t grabbed his bastard brother. “Jon, stop!” Robb hissed, putting himself between Jon and Theon. “My mother won’t like it if she catches you fighting. Or Father.”

But Theon didn’t think Jon Snow cared about that at the moment. His scowl was gone, replaced only by a complete lack of expression. His eyes were blank with rage, and he was still trying to break free from Robb’s hold.

Theon straightened up, fully intending to box Snow’s ears, Robb Stark be damned. The hits had been more surprising than painful. But he’d just let a five-year-old hit him. Twice.

“What did you say to him?” A very unwelcome voice broke in and stopped him short. Theon turned to see Rhaenys Targaryen running up behind him, almost tripping on her dress in her haste. “Robb, what did Theon say?” She glared at him as she passed, the expression eerily like Snow’s own, and grabbed the boy’s shoulders herself.

Robb hesitated. “He said Father didn’t want Jon,” he said at last.

Rhaenys whirled right back around to Theon, almost hitting her precious Jon with her braid. “Why would you _say_ that?” she demanded.

Theon shrugged. He couldn’t very well say he hadn’t liked how Snow had looked at him. Rhaenys sniffed with disgust and turned back to Snow. “Don’t listen to him, he’s stupid,” she said firmly, sparing another glare for Theon over her shoulder. “Of course Lord Eddard wants you here.”

“I want you here,” Robb added. “Even if Mother doesn’t.”

Theon’s lip curled, but he said nothing.

“Come on,” Rhaenys said, straightening up and letting go of Jon Snow now that he wasn’t trying to get to Theon anymore. “Arya’s awake. I thought you might like to play with her.”

“Lady Stark…” Snow began, but Rhaenys cut him off.

“Lady Stark is busy. Let’s go.” She practically dragged him away, and neither of them gave Theon another glance. _Good riddance to them._

Robb lingered for a few seconds. He was not so close to his foster sister as Jon Snow was, and seemed to have something to say besides. “You shouldn’t say mean things to Jon either,” he told Theon. “Father does too want him.” Then he ran to catch up with his brother and foster sister.

That left Theon alone in the yard, with nothing to do, nobody to play with, and orders to go to his cell instead of going to dinner. He almost missed Asha then.

 

\---

 

Cold fog in the morning and freezing ground at night – Jaime hadn’t missed travelling through the North at all. Winterfell’s comforts seemed more appealing with every passing league. Hot water. There was always hot water at Winterfell. Clean clothing. His sparsely furnished cell, its only real luxury a thick red carpet that Lady Catelyn had provided for him. It had been a considerate touch.

He bypassed Castle Cerwyn and rode on for Winterfell. It meant he would arrive shortly after dark, most likely, but he was happy to ride hard for the day if it meant he got back that evening.

Rhaenys Targaryen would be there. He hadn’t seen her for well over a year. His charge, shame and dishonour upon him again if he should fail to protect her.

Night was just falling as he rode through the gates. The guards recognised him instantly, hailed him, and sent someone to tell Lord Stark. Jaime entered the yard, handed his tired horse to a stableboy, and wondered who would find him first.

The Greyjoy boy, as it turned out. Jaime hadn’t paid him any mind in Pyke. But of course, since Robert had said the boy would be a hostage here, he was here. And since Ned Stark was not the sort of man to mistreat a hostage, the youngest Greyjoy would have as much freedom in Winterfell as Stark’s own sons did. “I remember you,” Greyjoy said. “You’re a Lannister.”

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” Jaime corrected him. He would not have people forget that, certainly not snot-nosed boys of ten, and the white cloak should speak for itself. He was owed a little more respect than simply _Lannister_. “And you’re a Greyjoy.”

“My name’s Theon and I’m the heir to the Iron Islands.”

Jaime was strongly reminded of his time as a squire. There had been a few boys there like young Theon, and now as then it irritated him. “Oh? Then I must have misheard the king. I was _so_ sure that he told your father that you were to be a hostage.”

Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands, scowled darkly, and Jaime regretted his petty words. He should leave the rebukes to Lord Stark, who somehow, Jaime couldn’t see permitting this attitude to last very long – particularly if Theon Greyjoy tried to lord it over Stark’s own sons. Even the bastard, whom Stark loved just as much as he did his heir.

“Ser Jaime.” He turned around to see Lord Stark heading towards him. As usual, Lord Stark’s face had about as much expression as the walls did. “I did not expect you here for another few days.” There was no telling whether Stark thought that was a good thing or a bad thing, but Jaime had known the man for years now, and would wager he was pleased.

“I got tired of living out of my saddlebag,” Jaime said with a smile. “My horse is a good one, and fast. I did not pay all that coin for him so I could ride half the length of the realm at a comfortable trot.”

“Your bags have doubtless been taken to your room already, and there is no shortage of food in the kitchen.” The nature of service in the Kingsguard meant that Jaime had seldom taken his own meals with the Starks, but eaten alone before or afterwards and spent mealtimes guarding the door against any Targaryen loyalists wishing to whisk Rhaenys away from her supper. “You are welcome in Winterfell, ser, and your months of living out of a saddlebag at an end,” Lord Stark said. “If you wish to see Rhaenys, however, the girls are with my wife at present.”

Jaime considered his options for a moment. “I think I had best see her.” More than a year. It was a good thing Winterfell was such a safe place. His responsibility to Rhaenys Targaryen had resumed as soon as he had walked through the gates.

“I see you have met Theon.” The boy shifted from foot to foot as Lord Stark’s gaze fell on him.

“We have made our introductions,” Jaime said. Stark dismissed Greyjoy and the boy fled. Still scared of Stark’s cold expression, Jaime saw. No shame in that, at ten Jaime would have been scared too.

He wouldn’t have run, but he would have been scared.

Jaime fell into step besides Lord Stark as the man started off towards his wife’s rooms. “How did you fare in the tourney?” Stark asked.

“Won the first, placed second at the second. You might wish to send your compliments to Lord Mormont, though. He rode well and won both the second tourney and the hand of Leyton Hightower’s youngest daughter.” It was an unusual match for a Northern lord – and a good one. Jaime had left the day before the wedding feast. “The king won the melee. He broke his arm and cracked some ribs, but was otherwise well when I left Lannisport.”

Stark shook his head. “He always has loved his dangerous pastimes.”

“I did appreciate the chance to see him in action without any ironmen trying to kill me,” Jaime said. “His grace is very skilled with that warhammer. It was a fair win.”

“Robert's efforts to learn the use of that hammer are not amongst my fondest memories of the Vale,” admitted Stark. “Nor would they be for several squires who trained with us.”

“Lots of bruises?” Jaime grinned. He had never even tried to wield a warhammer, but training with sword or lance both produced bruises aplenty. He could just imagine a young Robert Baratheon flailing around with more strength than good sense.

“The worst accident was a broken leg,” Stark said. “In hindsight I think we might have suffered relatively little.”

“And how are your sons?” Jaime asked, changing the topic as they approached Lady Stark’s door. “I would have expected them to find us by now.”

Stark very nearly smiled at that. “No doubt they are causing mischief in another part of the castle. They are both well, however, and you may find yourself under siege from their questions in the next few days. If they bother you unduly, send them to Maester Luwin or myself. I will not have them interfere with your duties.”

Jaime nodded. Stark knocked on Lady Catelyn’s door. “My lady, might I enter?”

“Certainly, my lord,” Jaime heard Lady Catelyn reply, and Stark let them both in. Lady Catelyn was in her chair with a babe in her arms, while Rhaenys, her back to him, entertained little lady Sansa with a game of cat’s cradle.

“Ser Jaime Lannister has returned to Winterfell,” Stark said.

Rhaenys scrambled to her feet and tried to untangle her fingers from her loop of yarn. “Ser Jaime!” For a moment Jaime thought she might embrace him, but she stopped in front of him instead and gave him a perfect curtsey, its dignity only slightly spoiled by the width of her smile and the yarn still hanging from one hand. She was starting to grow into that awkward, coltish stage. Even Cersei, before his father had taken her to court, had had a year where she seemed to be mostly elbows and knees, no dress ever quite the right length. Lady Catelyn didn’t rise, but she inclined her head to him.

Jaime bowed back. “My ladies.” He straightened and added, “I seem to have miscounted your children, Lady Catelyn. When I left I could have sworn you had but two.”

“Her name is Arya,” Lady Catelyn said. “She was born a bit more than a moon’s turn ago.”

Jaime counted backwards. Lord Stark would have arrived at Winterfell to a daughter he hadn’t expected. He remembered the shock he’d had when Cersei told him that Joffrey was his, the uncertainty. _I have a son. What do I do?_

He’d hardly thought about Joffrey since. He hadn’t wanted to think about the boy, who had another man’s name and would grow up calling another man father. The boy was Cersei’s son more than anyone else’s, and Jaime was content to think of him as a nephew. More than content. He was…not suited for fatherhood. “Congratulations, my lady,” Jaime said, as he’d been taught to say when his aunts introduced him to his cousins. It sounded inadequate.

“I’m so glad you’re back, Ser Jaime,” Rhaenys said. Her eyes shone as she looked up at him. “You said you’d only be a few months.”

“You have only Balon Greyjoy to blame for my absence, my lady,” Jaime said. He was tempted to mention Robert’s involvement as well, but that would not have been appropriate. Especially not in front of Eddard Stark.

Rhaenys started to say something else, but Lady Catelyn spoke again. “Rhaenys, my sweet, leave Ser Jaime alone. He’s clearly in need of some refreshment.” What Lady Catelyn meant was that he smelled like horse and looked like a league of bad road, but was far too well-bred to ever say so. “He will still be here in the morning.”

“It’s true,” Jaime said to Rhaenys. “I’m far too tired to ride on to the Wall this evening, as I had originally planned.”

Rhaenys pouted, but Lady Catelyn had spoken. Jaime showed himself out – Stark had clearly elected to stay and spend time with his womenfolk – and headed towards the kitchens, trying to forget just how much Rhaenys’ smile had reminded him of how Tyrion used to look at him. Like he could fix anything.

 

\---

 

Updating the White Book was not as troublesome a task as it used to be, and it disturbed him. Ser Barristan could remember a time when the Lord Commander always seemed to be carefully writing out a new line in the entry of one brother or another. 

Now he was the Lord Commander, but as he looked over the scant lines he had added upon returning from Lannisport, he realised he had very little to tell future brothers of. There had been tourneys aplenty since Robert had taken the throne, yet aside from Ser Jaime’s victory in the tourney in Lannisport the year before, he was the only sworn brother to have won any of them. The Greyjoy rebellion had been and gone, and he had only written _served with distinction alongside King Robert at Pyke_ or _served with distinction at Old Wyk_. The words were fair, but not exceptional. Mediocrity was their current fate.

_The Kingsguard is in decline_.

He flipped backwards, to the five pages he had finished years before. It was the nature of the service. One day his own page would be finished in a line or two, by a hand other than his own.

_Slain on the Trident._ His page could easily have ended with the very same words he’d written for Lewyn Martell and Jonothor Darry both. That would have been fine; that would have been a good death. That was how a knight of the Kingsguard was supposed to die. He had chosen otherwise, because the Kingsguard did not judge, not even how a proclaimed king came to the throne.

_Slain in the mountains of Dorne._ He’d written that three times, on three pages, on the one day. Gerold Hightower, Oswell Whent, Arthur Dayne. _Slain in the mountains of Dorne._ In defense of the Lady Lyanna, no doubt. Eddard Stark, mourning his sister, had never been forthcoming with the details. Nor had Selmy asked.

He had never known where it was Prince Rhaegar had taken Lady Lyanna, and so he had never seen any reason to tell Robert that she had gone with Rhaegar willingly. Especially not once the lady was dead.

_Slain in the mountains of Dorne_ , guarding one of Rhaegar’s odd secrets. The Kingsguard did not tell.

Or at least it hadn’t, in the past. Selmy was not so sure of his sworn brothers now. Ser Arys Oakheart had been his own pick for the Kingsguard and Selmy was sure of him, at least. Oakheart was a touch slow of wit, but trustworthy. Ser Mandon had been the Hand’s choice; Sers Boros, Meryn and Preston the queen’s. The queen’s knights, Selmy particularly distrusted.

The queen, he felt, took entirely too much interest in the Kingsguard. It would all be well and good if she had any fondness for Robert, but she didn’t. She loathed him. It was obvious. The last thing in the world Selmy wanted to do was entrust Robert’s safety, even indirectly, to a woman who hated him so.

He flipped to Jaime Lannister’s page in the book. It was a longer entry than a man of twenty-four would usually boast – at twenty-four, Selmy had been a year in the Kingsguard, to Ser Jaime’s nine. And the entry had caused Selmy almost as many problems as the man himself. 

_Left King Aerys II Targaryen to his death during the Sack of King’s Landing_. Harsh words, which Selmy had agonised over before committing to paper. Defending the king against himself was their most difficult task, and Ser Jaime had been seventeen, alone, and a glorified hostage against his father’s good behaviour. But in the end, Ser Jaime had been a man, and a knight of the Kingsguard, and his king died by violence uncontested on his watch. The words that followed had sat a little easier on his soul: _Avenged the murder of Prince Aegon. Rescued Princess Elia his mother, who died of wounds sustained earlier, and Princess Rhaenys his sister._

Still, Ser Jaime was twin to the queen, and she had pursued his recall to King’s Landing with single-minded intensity. Her insistence made Selmy uncomfortable, to say the least.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Selmy looked up to see one of Lord Arryn’s men. “Ser Barristan? The Hand wants to see you.”

Selmy stood, refastened his cloak over his shoulders, and went to the Tower of the Hand directly. Each time he climbed the stairs, he felt it just a little more in his knees. He was getting older.

Though he had never felt so old as Lord Arryn looked now, Selmy thought as he was shown into the Hand’s solar. Lord Arryn had not been a young man when he took up his position, and governing Robert’s kingdom was clearly taking a heavy toll on him. Who would replace him when he died? Lord Stark most likely, or perhaps Lord Stannis.

“My lord?” Selmy said, as the Hand was absorbed in some paperwork and hadn’t seemed to notice his entrance.

“Oh, Ser Barristan. Thank you for coming so promptly.” Lord Arryn seemed even more tired than usual today, dark circles under his eyes and the lines around his mouth deeper than ever. “I have summoned Lord Stannis to court.”

“You are concerned for his safety?”

“No more so than usual.” Robert would not pay the slightest attention to how his brother, currently third in line for the throne, was guarded in the capital. But then, Robert was frequently inattentive to the protection of his queen and his heir. “I trust you will make the appropriate arrangements.”

“Of course, my lord.” Stannis didn’t merit a member of the Kingsguard itself in times of peace, not unless Robert specifically directed one of them to guard him, but Selmy nevertheless bore a certain amount of responsibility for the security of any visiting member of the royal family. He would find and organise the guardsmen on that detail.

“You might also be pleased to learn that I have rescinded the orders for the assassination of Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen. I know you disapproved of the original order.”

That was a surprise indeed, but a good one. “What brought on this decision, if I may ask?”

Lord Arryn handed him a few sheets of folded paper. “In several years of observing them, none of our agents have found any evidence that their representatives are mounting a serious plot to overthrow Robert,” he said. “They are living quietly in Braavos, as far as our spies can tell. Now Willem Darry is gravely ill. A wasting sickness, which will kill him within a year or two. I can see no threat, and I have persuaded Robert of the same.”

Selmy allowed himself a small smile as he scanned the reports. “I am glad to hear it.” Even knowing that Robert could change his mind at any time, he was glad to hear it. After Aerys’ murder, Aegon’s murder, Rhaella’s untimely death…too many of the family he used to serve had been killed while he lived.

“One more thing,” Lord Arryn said. “The queen has been asking for her brother again.”

He hadn’t expected her to stop. Her efforts had been to no avail, thus far, between his efforts and the Hand’s own. “She will succeed eventually,” Lord Arryn continued. “Sooner or later Robert will get tired of her requests and agree just to silence them.”

“I would have her success delayed as long as possible,” Selmy replied cautiously. He did not want any member of the Kingsguard prevailed upon by the queen, no more than they already were. Oaths were oaths, but there was no need to test them to the breaking point if he didn’t have to.

If Selmy were to die tomorrow, Ser Jaime would almost certainly become Lord Commander in his place – and he had to admit that Ser Jaime would currently be the best choice for it, conflict of interest or no. It left a sour taste in his mouth. _The Kingsguard is in decline_.

“As would I. These decisions should be entirely Robert’s, or your own. But we should nevertheless be prepared.” The Hand sighed. “It may be more my problem than yours, in the end, and I will do what I can. Thank you for your time, Ser Barristan, you may go.” 

“Thank you for keeping me informed, my lord.”

It was Rhaegar’s actions he was reminded of, Selmy realised as he walked back to the White Sword Tower, Rhaegar’s cultivation of the Kingsguard in the last few years of Aerys’ reign. The prince had never tested it, but thinking back on it Selmy wasn’t sure which way his sworn brothers would have jumped if Aerys had said yea and Rhaegar nay. The queen was on her way to achieving something like that. Half the Kingsguard was hers, and unworthy of their cloaks along with it.

And the Kingsguard divided, Selmy feared, might lead quickly to dead kings.

 

\---

 

“Forty-nine times of every fifty,” Lord Eddard told Robb and Jon, who both looked back at Ser Jaime with wide eyes. “We have had occasion to test it in the yard. The fiftieth time is usually when Ser Jaime loses his footing in the slush.”

Ser Jaime shrugged at their expressions. “A loss is a loss. Whether I tripped over my own feet or had my sword knocked cleanly from my hand, your father would have killed me just as dead if it were a real fight. You’d do well to learn from his example and always pay attention to your footing.”

Robb nodded, but Jon looked carefully at the muddy yard. Rhaenys knew that they both wanted to start training with swords properly, especially since Lord Eddard had come back from the war with Theon Greyjoy. _Theon_ was old enough to train with a tourney sword. Robb wanted to catch up. Jon wanted to do most everything Robb did.

Rhaenys was a little jealous, really, of Theon. She didn’t see why Robb liked him so much. He wasn’t even nice.

At least Jon had some sense. Lady Catelyn too. She’d found out about the fight, probably from Robb, and hadn’t said anything about it to Jon. She never told Jon off for anything that didn’t have to do with Robb, Sansa or Arya, but Rhaenys didn’t think she’d said anything about it to Lord Eddard either. She’d just told Rhaenys to make sure Jon didn’t do it again, since Theon was a guest in Winterfell.

But Rhaenys wasn’t out here at Ser Jaime’s practice to watch him, or Lord Eddard, or to cheer Jon in his play-fights with Robb. She had something to ask Ser Jaime.

Theon was old enough to train with a tourney sword. She was only a few moons younger than Theon.

“What is it, my lady?” Ser Jaime asked her as she followed him from the yard. He always called her _my lady_ , same as he called Lady Catelyn. It made her feel grown up, and brave enough to go through with this.

“Will you teach me how to use a knife?” she asked.

Ser Jaime’s smile vanished.

“Not a sword,” Rhaenys said. She didn’t much like the idea of fighting with swords herself. “Just a knife. Just a little one.”

He sighed and ran a hand through his damp hair, still mussed from being under a helm. “Did you ask Lord Stark whether you could? Or Lady Stark?”

“No,” she admitted. She didn’t think either of them would let her. Especially not Lady Catelyn, who didn’t even like the tourney part of tourneys, just the dancing and songs afterwards.

“Just a little knife?” Ser Jaime repeated. “The sort you can hide in your skirts just in case?”

Rhaenys nodded, throat too tight to speak.

“I’ve heard worse ideas,” he said at last. “But, my lady, you have spent all your life under guard and will be under guard until the day you die.” Rhaenys started to tell him that she didn’t mean to say that he was bad at his job, but he stopped her. “What I mean, my lady, is that if you ever need to use a knife, that means that your guards will be dead and that things are so bad you will probably not survive the experience.”

“I know,” she managed to say. “I just –“

Like that time in the godswood, she suddenly thought she was in the Red Keep, in her mother’s room. She shook her head to get rid of the feeling. She was in Winterfell. _Winterfell._ Ser Jaime was here and he wouldn’t let her get hurt.

“My lady?” _See? Ser Jaime. Don’t be stupid._ “My lady, are you well?”

Rhaenys nodded, though she could feel tears in her eyes.

“If you say so,” he said. She knew he knew she was crying, and felt embarrassed. “I understand. I wouldn’t want to die without fighting either. Come. Let’s go to the armoury and we’ll find something that fits in your hand.”

It took them a while. “It’s not much more than a penknife,” Ser Jaime said when they finally found a dagger she could use. “But it’s live steel all the same. I know you know how dangerous a knife can be, so I don’t have to tell you to be careful with it, do I?”

She thought of the scars underneath her dress. “No, Ser Jaime.”

“Good,” he said. "If I ever find you misusing it I will take it back and tell Lord Stark everything." He still wouldn’t let her take the dagger, though, not even once she'd sworn to him to only ever use it properly. “It’s from the armoury. Neither of us are thieves, I hope. I’ll have Mikken copy it.” 

Rhaenys resolved not to tell Ser Jaime about the honeycomb. And to be careful next time she took anything from the kitchens, which might actually be more difficult now Ser Jaime was back.

A few days later, copy in hand, he showed her how to hold the dagger right, explained how to keep it in good condition, and instructed her to make sure she had strong arms. “It is harder to stab through a man than you might think,” he said. “If the angle is wrong the muscle itself will fight you like a tough piece of meat, or you could hit bone before something vital.”

When Ser Jaime was satisfied she understood those things, he said, “You understand that this will do you little good against a man in armour?”

“Yes,” Rhaenys said.

“And that I will make you practice anyway, if you are going to carry any sort of knife around?”

“Yes,” Rhaenys said. “I want – if bad things happen and I can’t hide – I want to make them bleed for it."

“You want to make them bleed for it?” Ser Jaime asked. “Well, it’s not the best weapon for that, but the more practice you get with your penknife there, the more likely you are to get lucky if it comes to it. Besides, I think Lord Stark might notice if I taught you how to use a crossbow.”

“Me too,” Rhaenys said. She managed a small smile. “And I can’t hide a crossbow in any of my dresses.”

 

\---

 

Cersei knew better than to think her father had come to visit her for the birth of her second child.

Lord Tywin was here, his first visit to King’s Landing since he left after her wedding, a visit that had begun with the sacking of the city. Rather, he’d come to speak with Jon Arryn about trade through Lannisport, the latest reports he’d had of the ironborn, and the possibility of quartering Lannister men in King’s Landing on a permanent basis. He’d also come to demonstrate that he would not be kept away from King’s Landing like a cur from a feast table.

He would be feasting with the king tonight, and that meant Cersei would have to sit on Robert’s other side and smile through all her husband’s insults. He dared insult them after all her family had done for him. And _Cersei_ had to fulfil expectations and choke back her rage. 

A queen, more than a king, seemed to have an endless list of expectations. Smiles. Pleasantries. Tedious piety. A perfect doll on Robert’s arm.

With that in mind Cersei excused herself from her son’s presence (“Mama, _stay!_ ” Joffrey demanded, and Cersei kissed him on the cheek and apologised) to find a dress that would both fit her and be appropriate for a feast. She had to exchange her favourite dresses for the big ones that made her feel like she was wearing a tent. There was a red velvet one she had in mind, and at least her changed waistline didn’t prevent her from wearing her best jewellery.

The feast turned out to be not so tortuous as she had thought it would. Robert  got himself drunk quickly and largely ignored both her and Lord Tywin, save for when some big ugly cat, a mean old black tom, leapt onto the feast table and stole a piece of meat from Lord Tywin’s plate. Then Robert laughed, loud and long.

When Cersei returned from ordering the serving women whipped for allowing the cat to do such a thing, one of her father’s men was waiting at the entrance to her rooms. “Lord Tywin would like to speak with you tomorrow morning, your grace,” the man said. “If that is at all convenient.” 

So he did have some use for her. “Tell my father I will see him after the morning meal,” she said, trying not to wince as her babe kicked inside her. How long would it be? A day? Two? A week? This was intolerable. She would not do this except for Jaime.

And what could her father have to speak with her about? Lord Tywin only rarely took her into his confidence. She had listened to his lessons as best she could, all through her childhood, but Jaime was the one who had received the best of it. Jaime always received the best of everything. Between her wondering and the babe, it was a sleepless night.

Cersei picked out another particularly good dress for her audience with her father, since it would not do to see him in anything less than her best. Red and gold, and as regal as possible. She couldn’t wait to have her figure back. It was hard to be queenly when she had to waddle everywhere like a duck. 

“Cersei,” Lord Tywin greeted her, when she called on him. He did not stand when she entered, hardly even glanced up from his writing.

“Father,” she replied, and took a seat without waiting for his leave. She was the queen and this was her castle.

After a few seconds of silence broken only by the scratching of his quill, he looked up. “I require your intercession with your brother. This business with the Kingsguard has gone far enough. He has always taken your opinion into account, more than he should. You will write to him.”

“And tell him what?”

“Quite simply this: it is well past time he came home. He is wasting his time in the North. His resignation from the Kingsguard can be arranged, followed by a suitable betrothal.”

“A betrothal to whom?” Cersei asked, trying to keep her voice level. _Not Jaime. Not Jaime. I already saved him from Lysa Tully. Not Jaime._

“It can hardly be arranged before Jaime has withdrawn from the Kingsguard. Arianne Martell is a possibility; that the Martells have not forgotten Elia works for us and against us in this. Mace Tyrell is an ambitious man with a young daughter he must needs see wed. It would be less than ideal, given her youth, I wish to see Jaime wed and with a child on the way as soon as possible, but the girl is of an appropriate station. Should Jon Arryn die soon and childless I might even consider the widow Arryn again. There are a number of possibilities.”

“The king won’t listen to me,” Cersei protested. She felt sick, and not from the shifting of the babe inside her. “Not about Jaime. Robert hates Jaime.”

“It is not Robert’s opinion I am currently concerned with.” Lord Tywin stood and walked to the window, an unusual sign of distress. A lesser man would have been pacing anxiously. “I will not have my heir shirk his responsibilities.”

“Father –“

“You will write to him,” Lord Tywin repeated, looking steadfastly down at the courtyard of the Red Keep. “I will do the same. I will not leave Jaime in the hands of Eddard Stark, no more than I will allow Robert to treat my son like a common guardsman.”

“Yes, father,” Cersei said, and excused herself. She went to see her son instead. Jaime’s son, and their second inside her. When Cersei had missed her moonblood after the tourney, she had felt like the most fortunate woman in the world. She had forgotten how much she hated being with child.

This babe didn’t kick anywhere near so much as Joff had, but the morning sickness was far worse. All the ladies of the court stared and cooed until Cersei thought she might be sick from that as well. Lysa Arryn was the worst of them, staring at her with big watery eyes. Almost like a cow, if cows had blue eyes. _The widow Arryn._ It might be worth keeping Jon Arryn alive if she could spare Jaime that particular fate.

Cersei swept past Ser Arys into Joff’s room. Someone – she couldn’t remember who – had suggested to her that it was about time to find a maester for his lessons, but Cersei was putting it off. _Let Joff stay a carefree child as long as possible. A king has far too many cares._

“You’re still fat, mama,” Joff said when he saw her.

“Your father is the one getting fat,” Cersei laughed, and it was true. Robert’s drinking and feasting was starting to catch up to him. Soon he would be ugly as well as stupid. “I’ve told you, I just have a little brother or sister for you in my belly.”

“Don’t _want_ a brother!” he shouted at her, and threw his toy sword in her direction. “Don’t _want_ a sister! You’re just _fat_!” 

“You might like a brother,” Cersei told him, ignoring the comment about her waist. He was so fierce, her Joff. One day he would be a great king and put fear into all who opposed them. Before even that, she would be regent, she had promised herself. Joff would not ascend the throne before she herself had had the satisfaction of getting rid of Robert, of Jon Arryn, of Barristan Selmy and Eddard Stark.

She would wait to see about Rhaenys Targaryen, but she would never, ever let anyone take her son from her. _Younger and more beautiful_. Nobody. Ever.

“You can play with a brother,” she told Joff, when he just kept pouting. “Wouldn’t that be nice?” His expression cleared slightly. “And if you don’t want a brother or sister,” Cersei continued, “you won’t have to play with them, my prince.”

“Good,” Joff says. “Want my sword.”

Cersei laughed and handed her son the little wooden sword he’d thrown at her. He hit at her ankles a few times, and the blows stung when they landed. “One day you’ll be as great a warrior as your father,” she said. “No one will ever dare say no to you.”

She called for pen and paper, intending to write Jaime while she watched Joff, but she was interrupted by the babe.

 

\---

 

“There have been two letters from the south today, my lord,” Maester Luwin said, handing one to Ned. “One for you, one for Ser Jaime.”

“I’ll take Ser Jaime’s letter to him myself,” Ned said, holding his hand out for the other as well. “I was on my way to Catelyn in any case.” His wife was with child again, and feeling poorly because of it. She’d assured him it would pass, and she still carried out her duties as Lady of Winterfell with only a bit more difficulty than she usually did, but Ned still worried.

“As you wish, my lord.”

Ned looked at both letters. His own bore his name on the outside in an unfamiliar hand, but it was sealed with a sun and spear in orange-yellow wax. He sighed. He could guess what this might be about.

Ser Jaime’s letter was sealed in red wax and bore only his first name, in a flowing feminine hand. It was most likely from the queen, then. In the months since Ser Jaime had returned to Winterfell he had received more letters from his family than he had in the years before the Greyjoy Rebellion. Most of them had been from Ser Jaime’s brother.

“He’s lonely,” Ser Jaime had explained, almost embarrassed, when Ned had asked. “Most boys his age have trained in arms, but Tyrion can’t, and our father is loath to let him leave Casterly Rock. So I promised I’d write more frequently.”

The admission had reassured Ned – as little as he trusted Lord Tywin, he hadn’t liked the sudden flurry of correspondence. And he understood. When he had fostered at the Eyrie, he hadn’t been lonely, not with Robert and all the other squires and pages, but a letter from Winterfell had certainly been a treat.

Lyanna had written most often, he remembered with a pang of old grief. Her spelling had never been very good and her handwriting atrocious, but once deciphered her letters had been full of life.

Ned had no further reservations. And when Lord Tywin had written himself, for the first time since his son had been posted to Winterfell, Maester Luwin had said that it had taken days for Ser Jaime to send a very short response. A few lines only, Luwin had said, which out of respect for Ser Jaime he hadn’t read.

Now the queen was writing to him as well. Ned put it out of his mind – if the Lannisters truly were planning anything nefarious with Ser Jaime, surely they would not send their letters through Winterfell.

Instead, he broke the seal on the letter addressed to him.

There was nothing untoward or disrespectful in the salutations, though the writer came to the point quickly enough. _With peace in the kingdom and, I hope, some of your own worries assuaged over the years, I would broach the topic of visitation._

Ned read it through. Doran Martell was not proposing to visit himself – _my ill health regrettably prevents me from travelling_ – but rather asked for hospitality on behalf of his brother Oberyn. _He was ever close to our sister, and I beg your understanding in this matter_.

Ned understood. _It's always about brothers and sisters._ He understood.

How much of a risk would this be? Oberyn Martell had known Rhaegar Targaryen better than Jaime Lannister had, and Ned still feared that Ser Jaime might find out. If Ned looked carefully, he could see the small similarities between Jon’s face and Rhaenys’. They were subtle, but they were there, little bits of Rhaegar Targaryen that Ned prayed everyone kept overlooking. Nor could he send Jon away for the duration of the visit without arousing some suspicion – in Catelyn, at the very least.

Yet rejecting a visit from Oberyn Martell, particularly while he was acting on behalf of his brother, would be even worse. There would be even more questions asked if he refused to host.

It wasn’t much of a choice. He’d have to keep Jon out of the way as best he could, just in case.

He sighed again and continued down to where the children were playing under the reasonably watchful eye of Ser Jaime. Catelyn often sat out here at this hour of the day too, but Ned couldn’t see her, or Arya for that matter.

The boys were arguing – Jon did not get along with Theon Greyjoy, and they competed for Robb’s attention – while Rhaenys taught Sansa to make a daisy chain. Though Sansa was only three, she seemed to have the trick of it. His elder daughter was good with her hands already. As he watched, Rhaenys put a finished circle of flowers on Sansa’s head, but intent on making her own, Sansa didn’t notice.

“Letter for you,” Ned said to Ser Jaime before the children noticed his presence. It didn’t look like Jon and Theon were going to come to blows. “From the queen, I believe. Do you know where Lady Catelyn is?”

“Your youngest crawled into one of the rosebushes. Lady Catelyn’s tending to her scratches,” Ser Jaime replied, taking the letter. “Yes, that’s Cersei’s writing. Thank you, my lord.”

He opened his letter right there, satisfying Ned further still that this was nothing more than innocent family communication. “We have a new prince,” Ser Jaime reported. “Cersei’s named him Tommen.”

“I shall send my congratulations.” Ned turned to Ser Jaime, only to see that the other man wasn't smiling. “Is there anything wrong?”

“It was just a bit of a shock,” Ser Jaime said, but slipped the letter into a pocket of his breeches straight away. “I didn't even know she was with child, my father neglected to tell me in his last letter. Was there anything else you wanted?”

“Just to speak to Rhaenys.”

At the sound of her name, the girl looked up. “Yes, Lord Eddard?”

“I’ve just had a letter from your mother’s brother Doran,” he said. “Do you remember your uncle Oberyn at all?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for being so patient!


	9. A Family Resemblance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn Martell talks to everyone he needs to, Jon Arryn delegates one of his many problems, and Jaime's big mouth does indeed cause some trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! A chapter a lot of people seem to have been waiting for! A warning: there is some discussion of Gregor Clegane and what happened to Elia and Aegon.

It had been more than a year since her uncle had written to Lord Eddard, but the visit was very close now. Despite one delay after another, Oberyn Martell would be arriving in Winterfell very soon. Try as she might, Rhaenys could barely remember her uncle. Ser Jaime and Lord Eddard said he had talked to her the day before she’d left King’s Landing, but she couldn’t recall a word that they had said, and could only picture a tall dark man, not a face.

She wondered if her uncle looked like her at all. She knew she looked a lot like her mother.

“What if he doesn’t like me?” she asked Lady Catelyn, as she was fitted for a new dress in Martell colours, the first dress she could remember having in them. Lady Catelyn didn’t ever order her dresses in Targaryen colours either, not that Rhaenys minded that. She’d rather wear her mother’s colours than her father’s, especially in Winterfell.

“Then Dorne will still be leagues away and it needn’t concern you much,” Lady Catelyn said. “But you are Prince Oberyn’s kin, and every account I have heard of the man has said that for all his…faults, he loved your mother dearly. He’s travelling the length of the kingdoms to see you. I think you’ll be fine.”

Rhaenys certainly hoped so. Ser Jaime hadn’t been reassuring at all when she’d mentioned her nervousness to him. “If he likes you, he likes you,” he had said. “If he doesn’t, he doesn’t.” Ser Jaime wasn’t much for nervousness.

Yet standing in the courtyard for a formal welcome (Lady Catelyn had given her a higher place of honour this time than her status as ward would usually warrant, since it was her uncle visiting, to see her in particular), wearing her new dress under a new cloak, all Rhaenys felt was nervous.

The small party rode through the gates, and Rhaenys thought she could tell which was her uncle immediately. He was at the head of the procession, and hard to miss. He was the only one wearing the Martell sun-and-spear. As he unwound his scarf from around his face and took off his hat to respectfully greet Lord Eddard, Rhaenys saw that he did look a bit like her after all. His hair was a few shades darker, black instead of her dark brown. He had a widow’s peak too, more pronounced than her own, and they had the same nose.

“Welcome to Winterfell, my lord,” Lord Eddard said as the group drew to a halt. “You and yours are our honoured guests.” Lady Catelyn stepped forward then with the bread and salt.

“We are honoured by your hospitality,” Prince Oberyn said as he accepted it. “You are most gracious, Lord Stark, considering we met but once six years ago. How time flies.”

“It was an unforgettable evening,” Lord Eddard said, and Rhaenys’ uncle laughed.

“It certainly was,” he said. “I see my niece there, and I would like to speak to her, but please, first I would be introduced to your lovely wife and even more lovely children.”

Robb immediately went red at being called “lovely,” which clashed horribly with his hair. Rhaenys snuck a glance at Jon, standing well to the back, and both stifled a giggle. Lady Catelyn glanced at her reprovingly, before turning her attention back to Prince Oberyn.

Lord Eddard left her introduction until last, though she had already met her uncle before. She wished she could remember him properly. “This is my ward, Lady Rhaenys Targaryen of Dragonstone,” Lord Eddard said, giving the most formal introduction. “You have my leave to speak with her alone.”

Rhaenys thought she saw a bit of anger in Prince Oberyn’s face at that, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “My lord,” Rhaenys said, and curtsied as well as she could. Lately it seemed like she was always bumping into things and falling over. Lady Catelyn said she was just growing too fast and it would stop eventually. This time, she managed not to fall on her face, not like last month when Lord Mormont had visited for a few weeks. That had been horribly embarrassing.

“No need for that,” Prince Oberyn said, in a much softer tone than he had used thus far. “You’re Elia’s daughter. You can call me uncle.”

“All right,” Rhaenys said. “Uncle Oberyn.”

Her uncle smiled. “That’s better. May I speak to you alone, once I’ve washed up a little?”

“I would like that,” Rhaenys said, though she still had butterflies in her stomach.

“Then that is what we will do,” he said, smiled, and bowed. “With your leave, my lady.” He nodded to Lord Eddard, and followed a servant to the guest rooms that had been prepared.

Lord Eddard watched him go. “You did well,” he said to Rhaenys. “You may play until Prince Oberyn asks for you again. No lessons until tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Lord Eddard.” She looked around the rapidly dispersing household and found Jon, still lingering at the back. “What did you think?” she asked him.

“He seemed nice,” Jon said, though he was frowning. “Are you still worried?”

“Yes,” she said. “But you’re right, he does seem nice. I’ll tell you more at dinner, I suppose.”

But Jon shook his head. “Father says I’m not to have dinner with everyone until your uncle leaves.”

“What?” Rhaenys asked, shocked. “But he let you eat with us when Lord Mormont was here, and Lord Umber before that. That’s not fair.”

Jon shrugged and looked around uneasily. “Your uncle’s a prince,” he said.

“He’s the second prince of Dorne,” Rhaenys replied. “That’s not even like being a Lord Paramount.”

“It’s not for long.” Jon was trying to be brave about it, but Rhaenys knew him better than that. She also knew that making a fuss about it would probably make him feel worse.

“I don’t have any lessons today,” she said. “Do you want to play hide-and-seek in the godswood?” Not Rhaenys’ preferred place to play, but Lady Catelyn had long since forbidden hide-and-seek in the main parts of the castle itself, on account of people tripping over them all the time.

An hour later, halfway through their third game, Ser Jaime came over to the brush she was hiding in. She spotted his boots through the leaves. “Now Robb’s going to find me for sure,” she complained without getting up.

“Robb or someone else, perhaps,” Ser Jaime said. “Did you forget? You have a visitor who wants to speak to you.”

Rhaenys stood up. A little distance behind Ser Jaime stood her uncle, smiling.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your game,” he said, and gestured for her to walk next to him. Ser Jaime hung back, keeping them in sight and out of earshot. “Were you playing with Lord Stark’s sons?”

“Yes,” she said. “Sansa and Arya are still too little to play with us much, and Theon doesn’t like me or Jon.”

“Jon?”

“Jon Snow. He’s Lord Eddard’s son too.”

“A bastard?” Her uncle sounded surprised. “I wouldn’t have expected Lord Eddard to keep his bastard in Winterfell with his lady wife.”

Rhaenys stopped walking. “I like Jon,” she said. “He’s my foster brother too. Lord Eddard says he’s part of the family, and Robb agrees, it’s only Lady Catelyn –“

“I’m not offended, little one,” Oberyn said. “I raise my own bastard children in my household, and they’re your cousins just like Arianne, Quentyn, and Trystane are. Arianne and my daughter Tyene are close as any sisters, in fact.”

“Oh.” Rhaenys hadn’t heard about any other cousins besides those three. “How many cousins?”

“Five that live with me. Six, in a month or two. I would have brought my paramour Ellaria here to meet you as well, but she did not want to risk giving birth on the road.”

She thought about it for a second. “I’d like to meet them.”

“I would like you to meet them too. But that will have to wait. Perhaps eventually you will visit Dorne.” He looked up at the canopy, then around at the old, dark trees surrounding them. “For now, will you tell me about Winterfell, my niece? Your mother would not have liked it here, I can say that for a certainty. The cold suited her ill.”

“Will you tell me about her?” Rhaenys asked. “Nobody here can tell me what she was like.”

Her uncle smiled, but above the smile his eyes were very sad. “Of course I will.”

 

\---

 

Not for the first time – and undoubtedly not for the last – Bran woke Ned and Catelyn in the night with his crying. And not for the first time, Ned privately cursed Catelyn’s desire to keep her children in her own chambers most nights while they were infants. He loved all his children well, but significantly less in the small hours of the morning.

“I’ll look after him,” Ned said to Catelyn. He’d been sleeping poorly in the first place.

“Mmm, thank you, Ned,” Catelyn mumbled, and pulled the blankets up to her ears.

Ned rolled out of bed, shrugged on a robe, and picked up his crying son. When Bran didn’t quiet after a minute, he took him into the hall. “You’re waking your mother,” Ned told him. "You need to be quiet." He walked up and down the hall, trying to keep himself awake while Bran took his time to fall asleep.

At the end of the corridor, however, he caught a glimpse of candlelight and a white nightdress. He followed, careful not to jolt Bran into full wakefulness again.

When he rounded the corner he found Rhaenys, carefully closing the door to Jon’s cell. As he watched she moved on to Robb’s, opened the door, and looked in on him as well. When she turned around – intending to check on Sansa and Arya in the nursery, Ned surmised – she spotted him.

“What are you doing up so late?” Ned asked, before she could speak.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Ned fixed her with a steady gaze.

“I had a nightmare,” she admitted. “I just had to make sure they were all still-"

_Alive._

“It was about your brother?” Ned asked. Truth be told he sometimes saw the smashed head of Rhaenys’ brother, _Jon’s_ brother, in his own nightmares, though more often they were of Lyanna and her life burning up as he held her. He didn’t care to think long on such things himself. Rhaenys nodded.

It seemed he was not the only one for whom Oberyn Martell was inadvertently bringing back terrible memories.

“They are all safe,” Ned said. “Bran included, as you can see. I would prefer, however, if you did not risk waking any of them at such a late hour in future.” Rhaenys nodded again at his words, and Ned continued. “I understand your problem. Perhaps you could visit the kitchens instead, as long as you stay out of the way of the bakers.”

His ward looked dissatisfied, but said “yes, Lord Eddard” anyway. Ned suspected she’d ignore him the very next time she had a nightmare, and made a mental note to tell Ser Jaime his charge was fond of sneaking around the castle while he slept.

“Now, back to your room, young lady,” Ned said, and started walking in that direction himself. If he didn’t see Rhaenys back in her bed she’d probably wander the halls for a while longer.

Rhaenys didn’t speak again until they were outside her door. “All I can remember about Mother is how she died,” she said, voice starting to crack, looking steadfastly away from Ned. “My uncle says she was clever and nice, and Ser Jaime says she was stronger than anyone thought she was, but all I can remember is how she died.”

Ned closed his eyes and remembered Princess Elia of Dorne and his brief conversation with her as she lay dying from her injuries. Each word had been laboured, laden with pain, for she had refused milk of the poppy and had several broken ribs. But she had spoken to him nevertheless, determined that she would be buried in Sunspear along with her son, and that her daughter would be looked after. He had given his word as quickly as he could, just so she could take the milk of the poppy and die free of pain.

It had been a very ugly sight. No child should have seen that. No child should have that be their sole memory of their mother.

“She loved you and your brother very much,” Ned said, looking down at Rhaenys. “No man could have died more bravely.” Elia’s nails had been torn and several of her fingers broken from trying to fight her attacker off with her bare hands. He remembered that. 

Rhaenys started to cry in earnest then, something Ned didn’t quite know how to deal with. He shifted Bran to his hip, opened the door, and ushered Rhaenys in. When she was sitting on her bed, he passed Bran to her, just as he’d passed Jon to her the very first time they’d met. “It will be all right,” he said, and let her hold Bran until she stopped crying and was ready to sleep.

The next morning, extremely tired though he was, he went hunting with the visiting Dornishmen.

“It seems that summer might be ending,” Oberyn Martell observed as they rode together through the light snow.

Ned looked at the clouds, at the snow itself, and how it lay on the ground. “Ending?” he said. “This is high summer. A cold day for it, I’ll grant you, but summer still, my lord.”

Oberyn Martell shook his head. “Dornish winters aren’t this cold. Come to Dorne, Lord Stark, and you’ll see what a summer really is." 

“I have seen a Dornish summer,” Ned said, keeping his voice neutral.

“So you have,” Martell said. “I had forgotten.” He changed the topic. “Rhaenys tells me that your bastard usually dines with your family. Please don’t feel the need to keep him out of sight on my account, Lord Stark. My niece seems very fond of the boy, and I would have her happy above everything else.”

Ned’s heart beat hard in his chest. “She is indeed fond of my natural son, as she is of all my trueborn children. If you are certain it will not offend, Jon will join us for the evening meal.” It was just about the last thing Ned wanted to do, but he had to act as though his only concern was not offending his guest. Jon was simply Ned’s bastard, whom he’d brought home from the war, and bastards did not dine with princes. That was all.

They rode on together for another hour or so, keeping their conversation casual, restricted to the terrain around them and the quarry they might find. But once they were alone, the other men scattered throughout the brush around them searching for tracks, Prince Oberyn’s face became serious again. “My brother Doran also bid me make you an offer while I was here,” he said.

Ned said nothing. He had no idea what this offer could be, and so he kept silent and waited.

“Your elder daughter is young,” Martell said. “Very young. In these peaceful times most would say she is too young for a betrothal. But one day she must nevertheless be betrothed, and on that day my brother the ruling Prince of Dorne would hope you consider his son Quentyn for her husband.”

This time, Ned’s silence was from shock. He had not even begun to consider potential marriage alliances for Sansa. “I thank you for the offer,” he said at last. “As you say, my daughter is very young and I cannot possibly give you an answer without thought. I will consider the matter most carefully.”

He did not want to commit to anything right away. Not when it involved his daughter; not without discussing this with Catelyn. He did not trust Oberyn Martell, and he’d never even met Prince Doran.

“You have done well by my niece, Lord Stark,” Martell said. “I, for one, would be happy to see Rhaenys’ foster sister wed her cousin. And if little Lady Sansa grows to be as sweet and clever a woman as she is a child, my nephew could hardly do better for a wife.”

“I thank you for your compliments. I will think on it,” Ned said. 

And think on it he did, all through dinner (Robb, he noticed, was delighted to have his brother back at the table), and up until he and Catelyn were finally alone in her rooms.

“A betrothal?” Catelyn said when he told her, surprised as he had been. “But Sansa isn’t even five years old!”

His lady wife, however, recovered from the shock more quickly than he had. “A Prince of Dorne, even a second child, is a good match,” she said. “For Sansa, I am not opposed. It is the current Prince of Dorne and his brother who concern me. I don’t trust them, Ned.”

“Oberyn Martell knows how to wound with words,” Ned agreed. A trail of duels from Sunspear to Braavos would attest to that.

“And my bedmaids tell me he’s been bedding one of the carpenters,” Catelyn sighed. “No matter. The man concerned has the sense to be discreet and is hardly going to be a fool for love, and at least there won’t be any Dornish bastards here in a few months. But then, it is not Oberyn Martell who might be Sansa’s goodfather.”

“Doran Martell has been cooperative with Robert and Jon Arryn,” Ned pointed out. “From what Jon wrote last year, he’s willing to see Rhaenys wed to Joffrey.”

“And the whole realm knows you to be Robert Baratheon’s staunchest supporter.” Catelyn shook her head. “Perhaps the Martells simply wish to integrate themselves further into Robert’s councils.”

“Perhaps.” Ned would like to believe that. Doran Martell’s willingness to quash his brother’s foolish attempt to raise Dorne for Viserys Targaryen would suggest something of the sort.

“We can ask for time,” Catelyn suggested after a short silence. “Sansa _is_ very young. It would not be an unreasonable request.”

“Until her tenth nameday,” Ned decided. “We will see how matters stand in five years, and give the Martells a definitive answer then.”

 

\---

 

“Well, if it isn’t my niece’s protector.”

Jaime was truly weary of Oberyn Martell’s presence in Winterfell. Though he was obviously very fond of Rhaenys, and seemed to like Lord Stark’s children as well, he put every adult in Winterfell on edge, Jaime included. More than that, Martell knew the effect he was having and positively enjoyed it.

Which was no doubt why he’d approached Jaime from behind, while Jaime was the only man left in the yard. This did not feel like an accidental encounter.

“Keeping your hand in, I see,” Prince Oberyn continued. “I had heard you were a fine tourney knight indeed.”

So Martell had been watching him practice his jousting, too. Jaime was suddenly very aware of how his arms ached.

“Not just a tourney knight, my lord,” Jaime said, smiling brilliantly as he could. “I was particularly valiant defending Lady Rhaenys from a rogue snowdrift last month.”  _And I fought on Pyke, and at Fair Isle, and against the Kingswood Brotherhood…_

“Valiant,” Oberyn Martell said softly. “As you were so valiant defending my sister and her son.”

Jaime stopped smiling. He wished he didn’t have to; smiles were better than armour in situations like this. But what had happened to Elia and Aegon was not a matter for even the appearance of levity. “I was too late,” he said. “The fault is mine, I admit it.” 

He had had to kill Aerys. He had had to kill Rossart. Those deaths had taken priority and Jaime did not regret killing them first, but he still wondered if he could have been faster about it.

“They used to call him the Mountain That Rides, back in the Westerlands,” Prince Oberyn continued, as if Jaime hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t admitted to his greatest failure. “The man you killed, the man who killed Elia. They say he murdered his parents, his wife, and his sister, not to mention several servants. I met his brother a few years ago. Tall young man, horrible scars. Burns. Rumour has it he was pushed into a fire as a child.”

“An unpleasant individual,” Jaime said, maintaining enough distance between them to draw his sword without being knifed. Just in case. “I have never had cause to regret killing him.”

“And the man was a knight,” Oberyn Martell continued, circling around to Jaime’s other side. “Imagine, such a man as that, sworn to defend women, children, anyone weaker than himself. Do you know who it was that knighted him, Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard?”

_Please tell me it wasn’t any of my kinsmen._

“Why, it was Rhaegar Targaryen himself,” Martell said, when it became apparent Jaime didn’t know the answer. “Rhaegar Targaryen knighted the man who murdered his wife and son. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Some might say.”

“I wanted to kill that man myself.” Martell kept circling him. Jaime didn’t even try to move away. _Show no weakness_. “Gregor Clegane. You did that for me, Ser Jaime, and Jon Arryn gave my brother his most sincere apologies rather than the vengeance or the justice my sister deserved.”

“Please forgive me for cutting off Clegane’s head,” Jaime said. “At the time, I believed Princess Elia might possibly survive the assault. It was only once her attacker was dead did I realise how severely injured she was.”

“Oh, I know better than to blame _you_ , Ser Jaime,” Prince Oberyn said, once again standing behind Jaime. “I believe my niece when she says you did your best to help her mother. Would that I could return Ser Gregor from the dead and kill him again myself. But Clegane was not the only man responsible for what happened to my sister and her children.”

Prince Oberyn finally stopped moving, halting just in the corner of Jaime’s left eye. Jaime turned to face him this time. “Do you know who gave the order?” Martell asked. “Do you know who sent Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch to murder my sister, my niece, and my nephew?”

Of course Jaime knew. Of course Jaime couldn’t say. 

“As I thought,” Martell said. He shook his head. “You might have wed Elia yourself, if your mother had lived. That little girl you’ve spent all these years protecting might have been your own daughter.”

“She isn’t, though.” Jaime drew himself up to his full height – only an inch or so taller than the Red Viper, but no matter – and said, “I am a knight of the Kingsguard. I will not inherit my father’s lands or titles.”

“Yet you keep the name Lannister,” Martell said. “And no number of oaths in the world will make Lord Tywin not your father.”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

Oberyn Martell stepped back further again, and raised his hands enough so Jaime could see they were well clear of anywhere he might be hiding a weapon. “The whole realm knows who gave that order,” he said. “It is as much a problem for you as you wish to make of it. All I want is justice for my sister and her son.”

He walked away then, leaving Jaime alone again in the yard.

Between Elia and the Sack of King’s Landing, between Tyrion and Tysha, Jaime knew that Lord Tywin had little honour and less mercy. He knew it was fair for Oberyn Martell to want justice.

Yet Lord Tywin was still his father, Tyrion his brother (who would one day inherit all that was their father’s) and Cersei his sister. He could hardly just abandon them to the mercy of their enemies.

 

\---

 

Catelyn arranged a rather grand feast for the night before Oberyn Martell and his men were to depart from Winterfell. “It is a long trip back to Dorne, my lord,” she said when Prince Oberyn had protested the lengths she was going to. “We must see you off with the very best of our hospitality.”

Not to mention she should like to make a good final impression on the family who could one day be Sansa’s. If Prince Oberyn was going to Dorne to report to his brother Doran, Catelyn would have him report back favourably.

In light of the circumstances, Sansa was to be allowed to attend the feast, too. She was just barely old enough, and well-behaved enough to be trusted.

She had already asked Ned if Jon Snow would be sitting at the high table for this feast. “Yes,” Ned had told her. “Prince Oberyn requested it specially.”

“I haven’t seen you protesting overmuch,” Catelyn replied, not even trying to hide how hurt and offended she was.

“You know he keeps his own bastard daughters in his household,” Ned said. “I _am_ sorry, Cat. If he had not asked, I would have Jon sit at a lower table.”

It didn’t make her feel much better. Though he had fretted about allowing Snow to eat at the same table as a Prince of Dorne, even after said Prince had asked, Catelyn knew well that her husband personally preferred it when his bastard ate at the same table as her children. The only thing Catelyn could do was dress Robb and Sansa in the Stark colours that Snow had no right to wear. It was only a shame that they were poor colours for children – every single mark showed, and Robb in particular would have to be very careful not to ruin his clothes beforehand.

She was very proud of her two eldest, she thought as she saw them sitting politely at the feast table in their best clothing. And Rhaenys too, once again in Martell colours and thoroughly charming her uncle. Prince Oberyn had a soft spot for children, it seemed to Catelyn.

“I hope you have enjoyed your visit here,” she said later in the evening, while Ned was otherwise occupied. “Especially given that you will have spent twice as long travelling than you have in Winterfell.”

“I’ve been curious about the North for a long time,” Prince Oberyn said with a smile. “My niece only provided me with further incentive to visit.”

He had a nice smile, too. He was indeed a charming man. Not the most handsome man she had ever seen, but he was educated and witty and engaging. Catelyn had thoroughly enjoyed the hour she had spent talking with him about his travels in Essos earlier in his visit, even though she _knew_ he was leaving out the stories of the brothels he had visited, the duels he had started, and the men he had killed.

“Your lord husband had given me his response to my brother’s proposal,” Prince Oberyn said. “What do _you_ have to say about it, my lady?”

Catelyn bristled slightly. “My opinion and Lord Stark’s are the same,” he told him. “My daughter Sansa is too young for a formal betrothal at the moment.”

“Lady Rhaenys has been betrothed since five. Her intended, since birth.”

“My daughter’s wedding is not the cornerstone of a dynasty.”

“She reminds me so much of Elia at that age,” Prince Oberyn said suddenly. For a second, Catelyn was confused, and then she followed his gaze to where Rhaenys was carefully helping Sansa pin her hair back up in the style Catelyn had put it in before the feast and from which it had since fallen out. “Sometimes it felt like I couldn’t go to a single meal without her telling me I’d done up my laces wrong or picked the wrong pair of boots. She was usually right, of course.” He sighed. “I would give all of Sunspear to hear my sister tell me I was wearing an ugly doublet again.”

“I used to say such things to my own brother,” Catelyn said. “I have not seen him for many years and miss him dearly.”

He raised his goblet to her. “Older sisters.”

“Older sisters,” Catelyn replied, tapped her goblet against his, and didn’t even try to match him sip for sip.

“Although,” he added, still looking at Rhaenys and the other children (including Jon Snow, who, Catelyn had been pleased to note, was dressed appropriately for his station), “that frown is entirely her father’s.”

“I cannot see it. But then, I never met Rhaenys’ father.”

Prince Oberyn snorted. “Not a tremendous loss on your part, I assure you, my lady. If there is anything our houses can agree upon, I would have thought it would be that Rhaegar Targaryen was not half so noble and romantic as some singers would have us believe.”

Catelyn knew of such singers, though for obvious reasons they did not often perform in the North – and if so, not for very long. Rhaegar Targaryen had kidnapped and raped her husband’s sister, and shamed Oberyn Martell’s sister into the bargain as well.

She wondered how Elia Martell had stood it. Catelyn was ashamed enough that Ned kept Jon Snow in the castle. She could not imagine the outrage and humiliation of knowing one’s husband to be a raper – a flagrant, unrepentant raper, who took a young highborn woman from her father’s home just months before her wedding.

“I will have to take your word for it, my lord,” she said at last, hoping Ned was nowhere around to hear. He never talked about what had happened to his sister.

“Fortunately, my niece seems to have a good life here, with little cause to frown,” Prince Oberyn said. “She might scowl like her father, but she smiles like her mother.”

After that he turned the conversation to lighter matters, and spent a good while speaking to an increasingly tired Rhaenys.

The late bedtime and early rising, however, did not deter Rhaenys from getting up to see her uncle off the next morning, yawning and blinking sleep away from her eyes. Ser Jaime, as always, was not far away, but Ned had allowed the children to continue sleeping. “When am I going to see you again?” she asked.

“Not for years, most like,” Prince Oberyn said. “If we are very lucky, you will be able to meet some of your cousins next time. Perhaps you will be the one to visit me, even.”

Rhaenys nodded, then curtsied. Catelyn was, once again, proud of the girl’s composure. She was usually such a nervous child. She had hidden it well when Prince Oberyn arrived, and she was hiding it well now that Prince Oberyn was departing.

“This would be farewell, then, Lord Stark,” Prince Oberyn said when he had finished saying goodbye to his niece. “I am grateful for your hospitality these past weeks. And I dare say you will hear from my brother soon.”

“It has been an honour,” Ned said, and called for the guest gifts – a fine fur cloak for each Dornishman. “Not the most practical garments south of the Neck, but until you leave my lands I hope they serve you well.”

“I’m sure they will,” Prince Oberyn said, immediately swapping his old cloak for the new. Catelyn noticed one of his guardsmen nod and huddle deeper in his own cloak. “No offense, but we are all of us more accustomed to the Dornish climate.”

“Farewell, then. Godsspeed and a safe journey to you.”

When they were out of sight on the road, and Rhaenys and Ser Jaime heading towards the hall to break their fasts, Catelyn looked up at Ned. “Feeling better, my love?”

“Much,” Ned admitted.

“No duels, no bastards, no murder attempts despite having Tywin Lannister’s son in the household,” Catelyn said, “I think it went well, given the man’s reputation.”

“Small mercies.”

Catelyn laughed, kissed her husband on the cheek while nobody was looking, and walked with him to a nice, peaceful breakfast and an immediate future free of troublesome guests.

 

\---

 

It had been a long time since Davos had spent much time in King’s Landing.

The keep on Cape Wrath was his home now, where he and Marya had a room of their own and there were three – _three!_ – rooms for his sons to share between them. They were small rooms, compared to some of those in the grander castles Davos had, much to his own surprise, seen and even stayed in. But there was once a time, not so long ago, when all his boys slept in the same bed, as he had done with his own brothers as a child. 

He had woods for game. His own woods. His own hunting rights. Marya had gardens. Their sons told him it wasn’t right for their mother, the lady of the keep, to tend to the gardens herself, but she loved it so and Davos wouldn’t stop her for the world. Marya had grown up in King’s Landing too, after all, and in that city gardens were for the highborn. And between the hunting, the fishing, and the gardens, their children would never go to bed hungry.

But there was more, even, than that. If his children got sick, he could find them a maester, a proper one chained by the Citadel. If their clothing tore or their shoes wore out, he could afford to buy them more (and better), and if they got cold he could afford to keep a fire burning. Dale was courting the daughter of a landed knight, the likes of which would have been utterly unobtainable for Dale of Flea Bottom. If Marya had too much work, she could ask a servant to help her.

It was because of all this – because of Stannis Baratheon’s generosity in giving him that keep and those lands – that Davos was more than willing to sail to King’s Landing immediately when asked.

It was Lord Stannis he was here to see, though Davos had been told to go to a certain townhouse rather than up to the Red Keep where Lord Stannis was serving as Master of Ships. Davos had never been to the Red Keep before, and wasn’t sure he wanted to.

When he found the right house – in a good part of the city, but not the best – a housekeeper showed him in and asked him if he would care to refresh himself while he waited for Lord Stannis to arrive.

Two hours later, the housekeeper told him that he was wanted in the solar.

Lord Stannis was there, and another man Davos didn’t recognise. A white-haired old man, dressed in dark blue without a sigil, and a single pin in the shape of a hand.

“Ser Davos,” Stannis said, “this is Lord Jon Arryn, Warden of the East and Hand of the King. Lord Arryn, Ser Davos Seaworth.”

“My lord,” Davos said, bowing deeply, and, he hoped, correctly.

“Ser Davos,” the Hand said. ”I have a job that needs doing, and Lord Stannis tells me you are the man for it.”

“I am at my lord’s service,” Davos replied.

“You were, he tells me, a smuggler?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You grew up in King’s Landing?”

“Yes, my lord. Spent most of my life at sea, but I was born and raised in King’s Landing, as were my wife and my three eldest sons.”

“And I can rely on your discretion?”

“Absolutely, my lord,” said Davos, by now thoroughly confused.

“Good,” said Lord Arryn. He gestured for Davos to sit. “Lord Stannis told me all this himself, but I wanted to meet you in person first. This matter needs to be handled with utmost sensitivity, and far too many unwelcome eyes watch the Tower of the Hand these days. Your knowledge of the city and your…former profession…should also be of use.”

Davos glanced at Stannis. Stannis was grinding his teeth. “My lords,” he said. “I do not understand what it is you could possibly want of me.” 

The Hand sighed. “Recently, Ser Davos, there have been a number of, shall we say, discoveries in town. I need to know whether they are isolated incidents or whether there is something more to them, and I need to know without the King, the Queen, or worst of all, the people of this city also finding out.”

“What happened?” Davos asked. Stannis had his fists clenched tight, too, and the muscles in his neck were standing out with tension.

“Wildfire,” Lord Stannis spat. “Three separate caches of wildfire have been discovered in this city over the past two years. One under the Dragonpit, two more stored in basements of unused buildings, streets apart from each other. Each cache was stored improperly and large enough to cause serious damage to the surrounds. If they caught alight while the wind was in the wrong direction –“

Stannis cut himself off, and resumed grinding his teeth. The thought of what could have happened obviously bothered him. Davos couldn’t blame him. 

“I examined the Guild of Alchemists’ books myself,” the Hand told Davos. “They have no records of these caches. They seem to have been smuggled out without anyone the wiser.” He smiled humourlessly. “It would not have been a difficult task, given the state of the alchemists’ records. Ser Davos, my father told me once that thieves made the best thief-takers. I hope the same applies to smugglers.”

“My lords,” said Davos, feeling a bit faint. “You want me to investigate whether someone stole enough wildfire to burn down this whole city, and to do so without alerting anyone else to this fact?”

“Yes,” said Stannis. “I know nobody more suited to this task.”

“You will report to Lord Stannis, not to me,” Lord Arryn said. “He will fill you in. Good fortune to you, Ser Davos, and I certainly hope that the problem is limited to what we have already found.”

When the Hand had left, Davos asked, “Why can the King not know about this, my lord?”

“My brother cannot keep a secret,” Stannis said. “Not one of this magnitude. The people believe that Robert keeps them safe, and if they were to discover he had allowed them to live on a firetrap for years, it would undermine confidence in his rule.” He scowled. “The lords of the Crownlands might have given their oaths to Robert, but in their hearts many of them are still loyal to the Targaryens.”

That answered that, and simply increased the responsibility already starting to weigh heavy on Davos’ shoulders. “How long has the wildfire been there?”

Stannis shook his head. “We aren't sure. Three years at least; ten years at most. The alchemists said the best way to tell would be to set the wildfire alight, but Lord Arryn and I agreed that would be far too much of a risk.”

“I should think so.” But seven years was a long stretch of time to investigate. It might be impossible. “I will do my best, my lord.”

“Good.”

As he listened to the rest of what Lord Stannis had to tell him – the locations of the caches, how they were found – Davos prayed that it was not an impossible task he had been trusted with.

 

\---

 

“You’ve got much faster with that,” Jaime said. “That will do for the moment.”

Rhaenys beamed at the praise and slipped her tiny little knife back into its hiding place.

A year of practice had yielded decent results. Rhaenys was not a particularly strong girl, and she was growing too fast for her balance and footwork to be very good, but she had a good eye. In fact, had she been a boy, Jaime thought she might have made a rather competent joust. And, as he’d thought when he first decided to teach her, she practiced consistently, properly, and with respect for the danger of live steel. Most boys her age could not say the same.

Then again, most boys her age had not been set on with knives. Jaime supposed that might alter anyone's perspective.

Even just a day since Oberyn Martell had left, Winterfell had become much quieter, the tension leaching out of the atmosphere. Lord Stark in particular had seemed much less on edge since the Dornishmen departed.

Jaime, too, enjoyed being able to practice without madmen sneaking up behind him, reminding him of his failures, and making veiled threats against his family. He could use some excitement in his life, but possibly not that sort of excitement.

Having finished with surreptitious knife practice for the morning, Rhaenys had expressed her desire to go play with the various Stark children (plus Snow, plus Greyjoy). Perhaps the boys would get into a scuffle today and Jaime would have to pick them up by their collars until the appropriate authority (mostly Lady Catelyn) decided on punishment. Jaime had entirely too much of _that_ sort of excitement in his life.

Lady Catelyn was sitting with her embroidery at the moment, as she liked to do when she had the time. Little Bran, only a few months old, wasn’t with her, though Jaime spotted Arya by her mother’s feet, happily covering a doll in mud. “Enjoying the peace and quiet?” Jaime asked, standing beside her as Rhaenys ran off to her foster siblings.

“Very much,” Lady Catelyn said.

“No more need for the children to be on their very best behaviour at all times.” They looked out over the yard, where said children were already arguing. It seemed to be proceeding along familiar lines. This one would probably stop when Sansa got upset at everyone shouting. “Such sibling harmony is a sight to warm the heart,” Jaime said.

Lady Catelyn frowned at him a little. “They aren’t all siblings, ser,” she said.

Whether she liked it or not, Jon Snow was a brother to her children, if only half. It was just Lady Catelyn’s bad luck that Snow looked so much like his father. “Perhaps Rhaenys should adopt the boy,” Jaime suggested. “She certainly mothers him enough. Would that make you happier?”

He shouldn’t run his mouth like this, but he was stuck here in Winterfell, bored almost to tears, while Oberyn Martell was planning gods knew what vengeance on Jaime’s family. Cersei. Tyrion. _Cersei_.  _No number of oaths in the world will make them not your family._

“Look at that,” he continued, though Lady Catelyn was glaring at him openly now. “She’s even teaching him to scare Greyjoy.”

It was a comical sight, Theon Greyjoy (heir to the Iron Islands), being stared down by a skinny girl and a six-year-old bastard boy. The moment was lost as Robb Stark tactfully interposed himself into the argument, though Jaime reckoned Theon wouldn’t welcome the save of face coming from another six-year-old.

He looked back at Lady Catelyn, feeling ashamed of how he’d spoken to her now, but she did not return his gaze, just stared out at the argument resolving in the yard. She’d turned rather pale, in fact. “I apologise, Lady Stark,” he said. “I should not have spoken so.”

Lady Catelyn did not respond.

“My lady?” Jaime asked. “Are you all right?”

Lady Catelyn blinked and turned back to Jaime, apparently startled and still pale. “Yes, Ser Jaime,” she said. “It’s nothing at all. I accept your apology.”

But for some reason, Jaime noticed, her hands were still shaking on her embroidery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as usual, to everyone who commented, kudosed (kudos'd? is that a verb?), bookmarked, or just read the whole thing.


	10. Raising Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn and Cersei attempt to defend their children from threats close to them. Davos begins his investigation. Jaime continues to say things he shouldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That wasn't too bad a wait, given how I ended last chapter, right? Right? No new warnings.

Catelyn retreated to her rooms, pleading a tender stomach. She did feel rather ill. What she had seen was absurd, impossible. It had to be a figment of her imagination.

Her imagination was certainly leading her down a wild path.

She asked the wet nurse to take Bran for the next few hours and leave her alone unless it was an emergency. She needed the time and the space to think.

Pacing back and forth in the safety of her own rooms, she tried to recall the instant Ser Jaime had called her attention to. The same expression on two small faces. Far too much the same. And the bastard son of Ned Stark and an unknown woman, possibly Ashara Dayne, had no business looking _anything_ like the daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. Not under any circumstances.

Oberyn Martell had said Rhaenys looked most like her father while she glared at someone. Rhaenys’ father had infamously not been true to Rhaenys’ mother, leaving her to abduct and rape Lyanna Stark.

Even while one part of her mind told her she was making too much of it, that it was an utter coincidence, that of course the two children looked nothing alike, another part was starting to think that this, this explained _everything_. 

Ned had been so anxious all the while Prince Oberyn had been present. He had tried to hide it, but Catelyn could tell. And, unlike most times a lord visited Winterfell, Ned had tried his best to keep Snow out of sight. Ned refused to send the boy away to foster elsewhere, seemingly worried about even that. Ned never spoke a word about his bastard’s mother to anyone, yet had clearly loved the woman very much. Ned never talked about his sister or what had happened to her, either.

Ned had always been faithful to Catelyn, aside from the single uncharacteristic affair that had supposedly produced Jon Snow.

She felt dizzy.

Given how old Snow was, there was enough time for it to be a possibility – just.  Perhaps Lyanna Stark had died in childbed, even. _My poor Ned_ , she thought, then ruthlessly suppressed the sentiment. There might be more at stake here than her husband’s grief over his sister.

Snow was a threat to her children, but a Targaryen bastard could be a threat to the whole realm as well as to her family.

 _Wise Crone, gentle Mother, just Father, help me know what to do. Help me know how to ask my husband the truth, help me know how to protect my children._  

She ran through the prayers and thoughts until, perhaps an hour and a half later, Ned came to find her.

“My lady?” he asked from the doorway, “Are you well?”

“Shut the door, Ned,” she said, rising to her feet.

He did. “Is there something troubling you, Cat?” he asked.

Looking at him now, Catelyn was filled with doubt. Surely Ned could never have done anything so dangerous. He loved their children just as she did and wouldn’t risk their safety like that. He loved _her_ , and for all she hated Snow’s presence, Ned had never shied away from the truth or the problems it caused them. 

Surely she had just been imagining it, in the first place. It had only been a moment, just one moment while her conversation with Oberyn Martell had been fresh in her mind.

Ned wouldn’t. He _wouldn’t_.

She laughed a bit, relieved. “Oh, Ned. You’re going to think I’m silly.”

“Never,” Ned said, smiling a little too, and reaching for her hands. “Silliness wouldn’t drive you back to your rooms for near two hours. You don’t _look_ unwell, at least, for which I am glad. So, my lady, what troubles you?” 

“In the yard this morning, I thought I saw –“ she shook her head. “It’s ridiculous. I’m embarrassed to say it. It was just for a second. Rhaenys and Jon Snow, they looked so alike –“

His hands tightened around her wrists just a fraction, and in his eyes, she saw the fear.

“Oh gods,” she realised. “It’s _true._ ”

She wrenched her hands out of his grip. “It’s _true_ ,” she repeated. “ _Why?_ ”

“Catelyn-“

“What possessed you,” she asked, voice shaking with shock, rage, and the effort not to shout it for all of Winterfell to hear, “to bring a Targaryen bastard into this castle and call him your own? A bastard born of rape, no less!” 

“Catelyn –“ Her husband stopped, steeled himself, and said, “Jon is no bastard. There was no rape.”

“Don’t be absurd. You know full well that Rhaegar Targaryen was wed to Elia Martell when he took your sister from her home.” 

“Be that as it may,” Ned said, “he said marriage vows to my sister before our own heart tree, in the sight of the old gods. Her gods. Lyanna told me before she died, and Benjen stood witness.”

“So the boy is trueborn,” Catelyn said. “Do you think that makes me feel any better? When I asked what possessed you to bring a Targaryen bastard into Winterfell, I was referring to the _danger_ of such an act. Not just to you, but to me and my children as well. If a bastard is dangerous, a trueborn son is fifty times more so.” She paused. “Gods, Ned, you are hiding a potential pretender to Robert Baratheon’s throne!”

“That won’t happen.”

“And why not? You _are_ planning to tell the boy at some point, are you not? You’re planning to tell a bastard boy that he might have been a prince, or a king. I worried that your bastard would come to want Winterfell; you would tell him he might have the whole kingdom.”

“There is no proof,” Ned said. “We made sure of that. Outside of you and I, there are only two people in all the world, maybe three, who know.”

“It does not follow that nobody will ever work it out,” said Catelyn. “You’ve already said _maybe three._ Who is this maybe third? For that matter, who are the other two? I worked it out. I worked it out, and I have never even _seen_ Rhaegar Targaryen. What about someone like Ser Jaime? What if Oberyn Martell had seen anything? Gods know you gave him ample opportunity.” 

“That was not my doing.”

“That doesn’t matter!” She took a deep breath, and made an effort to speak more quietly. “The opportunity was there. It’s a dangerous, foolish game you are playing, my lord, and I want nothing to do with it.” Another deep breath, to voice a request she’d made a dozen times, now to become a demand. “I want you to send Jon Snow away.”

“Catelyn, I –“

“Foster him out,” she said. “I’ll keep your secret, come what may. But I don’t want him anywhere near my children. It’s too dangerous.” 

Ned looked at her for a long moment. “You have never wanted Jon near our children.”

“And now I want him near them all the less,” she replied. “You know the danger, and you clearly want my children to share in it. They call him their brother, in spite of how I feel about it, and in spite of the fact that he’s their cousin, and you knew it. You knew it all along. Get rid of him, Ned, I don’t care how.”

The fear was gone from Ned’s eyes now, replaced with anger. Catelyn had only seen him this angry with her the once, when she had asked him about Ashara Dayne, the woman he had never quite said was Jon Snow’s mother. It would have been a lie, Catelyn knew that now, but no more a lie than calling the boy _Ned Stark’s son_ , or even _Snow_ if Ned told it true. It would have been a _useful_ lie. The woman was dead, and so hardly in a position to deny it.

“We have had this argument before, my lady,” Ned said.

“You decided a long time ago,” Catelyn accused. “Things are different now.”

“I promised,” Ned said. “On my honour, I promised, and I would do it again if Lyanna asked me such a thing today.” He turned on his heel and stormed from the room.

The door shut with a very final _thud_. Catelyn wanted to weep.

The Lady of Winterfell, on the other hand, had other things to do today. She took a moment (she could not face Ned right now, not even in the hallways), checked her reflection in the mirror to make sure nothing showed on her face, and left to face her duties.

 

\---

 

_How do you get hundreds, possibly thousands, of delicate clay vessels from one place to another in total secrecy? When any of those vessels might explode, no less?_

That had to be the weak point in the plan, Davos thought. Or at least the point at which he was most likely to find someone who could tell him more about what happened. The wildfire had been taken in bulk; it was likely to have been moved in bulk. The most dangerous wine delivery there ever was. 

Looking around the Guildhall of Alchemists, at these so-called “Wisdoms”, Davos couldn’t see any of them carrying any more than perhaps a small, carefully cushioned casket of little bottles of wildfire. No, they would have contracted the real work of moving those jars out. 

_They call themselves Wisdom while producing stuff to burn the city to the ground._

Unfortunately, the safest thing to do would have been to use the same work team for the job and then kill all of them once they were done. Davos had heard of jobs like that before. It might still be worth asking some questions. There were always old, talkative men in taverns. Men with long memories, who nobody important ever noticed. 

“You are certain that what you disposed of for the Hand was originally produced for Aerys?” Davos asked.

“Certainly,” said his guide, a Wisdom Hallyne. “The jars, you see – King Aerys commanded that we make the jars in the shape of fruit, and that is what was delivered to us for disposal. After Aerys’ untimely death, we returned to making simple round jars.”

So, whoever had taken the wildfire had likely as not taken it from a storeroom. If one _had_ to steal wildfire, Davos supposed, it made sense to take it from an old batch not supervised as carefully.

“How do you store it all safely?” he asked Hallyne. “And who has access to your old stores?”

“It must be stored in the dark, good ser,” Hallyne said. “The heat of the sun can sometimes be enough to make them catch fire of their own accord. The older the substance within them, the more easily this can happen. As for access, the substance is kept under lock and key. The storerooms have false ceilings, so if they do catch alight any blaze can be smothered with sand instantly. As for your second question, every alchemist has access to the storerooms.”

Davos supposed, then, that if there were any more caches, they were all in places well away from the sun. _Thank the gods our thieves had enough sense for that, at least._ The chill he felt was not all from the stone and darkness of this underground room. 

Perhaps the improper storage was only meant to be a temporary thing? Had these thieves been selling the wildfire on? If any had been sold out of King’s Landing, Davos knew a few men he could talk to about that.

“And how do you dispose of the wildfire?” Lord Stannis had said that the Hand had ordered the discovered wildfire destroyed, a decision that sounded very good indeed.

“One jar at a time, ser, one jar at a time.” He frowned. “It took quite some while, a lot of work, and in the end, what a waste it was.”

“Indeed,” Davos replied politely, though in truth he couldn’t be happier. A fire in a city was a terrible thing. There had not been a bad one in King’s Landing for many years, but the fear never really went away. When he was a boy, not long before he went to sea for the first time, a few houses in the oldest part of town had burned one night. It might have spread, had someone (the Hand? The King himself?) not ordered other, nearby houses torn down to stop that from happening. Flea Bottom never did have much of a view, but Davos had seen the glow nevertheless. 

Marya had told him of the Sack of King’s Landing. It had been fire she had feared most at the time, rather than looting or rape. What was there in Flea Bottom to steal, after all? Yet whenever a building was torched…

His wife and sons lived in a stone keep now.

“Have you ever had problems with theft before?” he asked.

“None,” Hallyne said. “Not many these days are interested in our substance. Very few buyers. It is not a profitable pursuit.”

“You do keep records,” Davos pointed out. Poor records, according to the Hand and Lord Stannis, records that were next to useless in achieving the purpose of a record in the first place, but _some_ information was written down. Including who ordered the wildfire, and how much. There were any number of reasons Davos could think of to keep a wildfire purchase off the books. “Discretion and wildfire can fetch a higher price than wildfire alone.”

“The men here all work for the love of knowledge,” Hallyne said severely. “We all know the danger the substance poses when stored improperly.” 

_Even a lover of knowledge needs to eat._

“I am still not convinced that the problems the Lord Hand found were the result of ill intent,” Hallyne continued. “It might well be a simple error in our orders, a transposed digit or some such. I don’t think we _ever_ made so much wildfire, not even for the late King Aerys.” 

That, Davos couldn’t check for himself, but he made a mental note to ask Lord Stannis about such a possibility. “Is there anyone here I could talk to about that?”

Hallyne thought about it for a few seconds. Davos waited. “Regrettably not,” the pyromancer said at last. “So many of our most senior Wisdoms died during the Sack, I cannot think of a single living man who could give you the information you seek.” 

“Oh?”

“Yes, before the Sack, you see, our order worked closely with King Aerys. Lord Rossart in particular. He was Hand, briefly.” 

“What happened to him?” Davos knew that Aerys had gone through a quick succession of Hands near the end of the Rebellion, but he hadn’t know one of them had been a pyromancer. None of them had seemed to last after Lord Tywin.

“Killed,” Hallyne sighed. “Murdered in the Tower of the Hand itself, I heard. The King, the Hand, a princess and a prince, all murdered on the same day. And, of course, several other pyromancers who had been advising the king, not that anyone has ever cared about that.”

“ _All_ of them?”

“Why, yes. Is there anything the matter?”

“No,” lied Davos. With the wildfire produced for Aerys missing, and every man who knew the details dead, he feared that something was horribly, horribly amiss. Even more amiss than just wildfire in a city.

 

\---

 

The children were not playing in the godswood, and for that Ned was grateful as he knelt before the heart tree. He wanted very much to be alone right now.

Catelyn knew. And as he had feared she might be if ever she discovered his deception, she was livid.

 _Get rid of him, I don’t care how._ She had said it as though Jon were a vermin infestation in a granary. As far as Catelyn was concerned, he might as well be. How had she found out? She said that she had seen Jon with Rhaenys in the yard. Had that truly been enough for her? Ned could see the resemblance, but he had been looking for it. He had always been looking for it, worried that someone else might see as well.

Now his fears had come to pass. Perhaps he _should_ send Jon away. Howland Reed knew; Greywater Watch might be safer for him, away from Catelyn who loved him not at all, and Rhaenys who loved him as the brother he was in truth. Away from anyone who might chance to see. 

But more vividly than even Catelyn’s words, he could remember Lyanna.

_See that he’s safe. See that he’s loved. Promise me, Ned._

Lyanna never had reconciled herself to either Brandon or Ned himself being fostered out. Especially in his case. She’d thrown a mighty tantrum when she learned that he was not being sent a few days’ ride from Winterfell, but out of the North altogether. She would be furious if she knew Ned was now considering sending her son from Winterfell.

He could almost hear her voice again: _Winterfell is his home. He should be with his cousins, Ned, he has precious little kin. How can you be so heartless?_

But then, his conscience regarding Jon Snow usually spoke to him in Lyanna’s voice.

“What _would_ you have done?” Ned asked aloud. If his long-dead sister could hear him anywhere, if she could tell him anything, it would be here in the godswood of Winterfell. He had the sinking feeling that she would tell him to take the risk, that there was more to life than just _safety_. She had loved deeply and loved dangerously in her lifetime, romanticism and selfishness wrapped up in one. She would have told him to take the risk and keep Jon in Winterfell, even if Jon wasn’t her son.

On the other hand, it was not just Lyanna’s son who might be in danger, and not only Jon’s fate that he had to consider.

Robb and Sansa were both old enough to miss Jon, if indeed Ned decided to send him away. Robb in particular would be distraught. Ned could bring himself to separate them, if he must, but he was not sure that he must.

 _You clearly want our children to share in the danger_ , Catelyn’s voice accused him. It was not entirely untrue, either. He had prayed for his boys to grow up feeling themselves brothers. The gods had granted him that. Sansa, too young to know what a bastard was, clearly thought of Jon no differently than she thought of Robb. He wanted Arya and Bran to do so as well.

No, Catelyn was not even a little bit wrong about that. He wanted his children to know their cousin, and this was the only way.

He wished Benjen were here. Though Ned had long since decided not to tell him, and though they had never discussed it, he had come to suspect that Ben knew anyway.

Then there was Rhaenys. His duty to her was nothing more than to see her safe, educated, and removed from anyone who would use her to threaten Robert’s throne, but the girl had lived in his home for near seven years now. She too was like a sister to his children. He wanted to do right by her.

He was more than halfway to keeping Jon Snow in Winterfell, just as he had said to Catelyn he would. If he was honest with himself, he wanted to keep Jon too. 

Catelyn would keep the secret. She had said she would; he trusted her. She might hate him for it, he realised with a pang of grief, but Ned knew her word was true. If he were very fortunate, perhaps Catelyn would come to understand that Ned also had to be true to his word – he could not break a promise to Lyanna.

 _See that he’s safe. See that he’s loved._ If only the two did not have the potential to contradict each other quite so much. 

It was not too unsafe to keep Jon. Not yet. Not while Catelyn kept her silence. He did not have to sacrifice Jon’s happiness for his safety.

Decision made, Ned spoke. “I pray that this all works out for the best.” It sounded frail to his own ears, hopelessly optimistic, but even in the heart of Winterfell’s godswood he dared not speak aloud of what precisely it was that disturbed him, what precisely it was that he wanted. 

Later that afternoon, Robb sought him out. Just Robb – no sign of Jon, and Ned knew what that portended. “Is Mother all right?” his eldest child asked. “First she said she was sick, then when she came back she looked angry.”

“Your mother and I argued,” Ned told him. “She is angry with me, not with you.”

Robb frowned. “Was it about Jon? She said she didn’t want me to play with Jon anymore.”

Ned drew in a sharp breath. “She did?” He did not want to tell his son to disregard his mother’s instructions. Yet he did not want Catelyn to shut Jon off from his family, either. “I will talk to her myself. But for the rest of the afternoon, you can entertain yourself without him.”

“All right, Father,” Robb said with a frown. He turned to go, then hesitated before leaving. “Father,” he asked, “why does Mother hate Jon?”

It was to be another conversation Ned had been dreading, then. Somehow, in light of what his wife had discovered this day, it seemed a bit less daunting and a lot more tragic. _Lies upon lies upon lies,_ Ned thought. When he had first brought Jon to Winterfell, he had never imagined lying to his own children as well as to his wife and nephew.

“You have heard people call Jon a bastard, correct?” he asked.

“Yes,” Robb said. “Because you weren’t ever wed to Jon’s mother.”

“That is exactly the problem,” Ned told his son. “I made vows to your mother and broke them. There are some people who would even say that it is your mother’s fault that I broke my vows.”

Robb’s eyes widened, clearly indignant on his mother’s behalf. It warmed Ned’s heart to see it.

“They are wrong.” Ned said it as firmly as he could without scaring the boy. “It is not your mother’s fault in the slightest. A man should keep his vows, Robb, remember that. But Jon’s presence in Winterfell always reminds her of what I did, and she is ashamed of that. It is an insult to her own honour.”

“It’s not Jon’s fault either!”

“I know.” He sighed. “It’s not as simple as that. Aside from reminding her of my failings, your mother is also afraid for you, your sisters, and Bran. She is afraid that Jon would hurt you in order to inherit Winterfell himself.”

That surprised Robb. “Jon wouldn’t do that! He wouldn’t, Father!”

“I know that too,” Ned said. “Your mother would say that nobody can know what will happen in the future. She wants to protect you, and because of what I’ve done, there is likely nothing that will convince her that Jon is no threat to you.” _Especially now that she knows the whole of it._

_And she is not entirely wrong._

“But…if what you did was so wrong, why did you bring Jon here in the first place?”

“There was nothing else to be done.” It’s as honest as he can be about the entire matter. Claim Jon, or let him be killed. Promise Lyanna to raise her son well, or allow her to die in misery and terror. They weren’t choices at all. “That is all I will say about it. It is not something I can tell you, nor something I wish to discuss even if I could.”

“You will tell Jon, though, won’t you, Father?”

Robb was a good boy. If he continued like this, with concern for others before himself, he would grow to be a good man. Ned couldn’t be more proud of him. “That is between myself and Jon,” Ned said nevertheless. “Any conversations I have with Jon about this matter will be between him and me, unless he decides to tell you. I don’t want you pestering him for anything I might or might not decide to tell him, either. What is mere curiosity for you is very serious for him. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Was that all you wished to ask me?” He still had letters to read and respond to, and he had planned to visit the winter town. Summer showed no signs of abating, yet Ned could not allow the place to fall into total disrepair. It would be needed later. Much as he would like to spend more time with his children, he had duties to attend to. 

“Yes, Father. Thank you, Father.”

“Good,” he said, and forced a smile. “I will talk to your mother, never fear. In the meantime, try not to bother her. She has had a difficult day today.”

 

\---

 

When Cersei finally managed to settle Tommen long enough to visit Joffrey, she found a maester in her son’s rooms. “What is this?” she asked.

“Mama!” Joffrey leapt up from his seat, ran over to her, and clutched her skirts. She had never seen her son this agitated. “Mother,” he corrected himself. Robert had recently told her son that “mama” was babyish. “Mother, I’m bored, but he won’t leave even when I tell him to. Make him go away.”

“Your grace,” the maester said. He had bowed when Cersei entered, and hadn’t raised his head yet.

“What is going on here?” she asked again, and didn’t give the maester permission to straighten up fully.

“My name is Lyam, your grace,” the maester said. He was an older man, into the middle of his fifties by Cersei’s reckoning, stout and soft with a prominent nose and greying brown hair. Cersei was taller than most women, but even hunched over a bit the maester was taller than she. “I have been engaged to teach Prince Joffrey his letters and sums.”

“It’s _boring_ ,” Joff interjected. “I want to go and watch the knights practice.”

“ _I_ did not engage you,” Cersei said. “By whose authority, then, are you here?”

The maester looked a touch embarrassed, but not the least afraid. “His grace’s. King Robert’s representatives sought my services, your grace.” 

“I see,” Cersei said. There was more to this, she just knew it. Robert had never paid the slightest bit of attention to Joff, no more than he ever had to his own lessons. It seemed unlikely that he would suddenly be asking for a maester to teach her son anything. “My son wants to watch the knights practice. You will take him and continue your lessons there.”

The maester straightened up at that. “Your grace, with all due respect, I don’t think –“ 

“Do it,” she said. “You’re to teach him his letters and his numbers. You can count knights with Prince Joffrey there as well as anywhere else.”

She glared at him until he said, “Very well.” He addressed Joff, still hanging on to Cersei’s skirts. “My prince, would you accompany me to the training yard to continue your lessons there?”

Joff glared at him, and then at Cersei. “I don’t want to do lessons.”

“I know, my sweet,” Cersei said. “It’s best to just get them over with. I’m going to talk to your father about this maester. I’ll see if I can find one more to your liking.”

The maester didn’t react to that, which caused her more than a little irritation. “You may go,” Cersei instructed him.

She watched them go, and then went to Robert’s rooms. Ser Barristan was on duty, immaculate as always in his Kingsguard white. “I need to speak to the king,” she told him. “Will you admit me?”

“If you insist, your grace,” he replied, “though you may not wish to speak with him at just this moment. The king is…entertaining, at present.”

Irritation became anger. “You mean he has some of his whores with him?” Cersei asked sweetly, and saw a small muscle in Ser Barristan’s brow twitch. “That’s quite all right. It’s nothing I don’t already know about. I insist, ser, I don’t care if you have to pull the slut off Robert’s cock by force.”

“Very well, your grace,” Ser Barristan said with just the slightest trace of disapproval. “If you will grant me but a few minutes.”

He went inside ahead of her, and two minutes later, a girl scurried out of the room. Cersei vaguely recognised the face. One of the maids, she thought. A minute after that, Ser Barristan opened the door for her. “Your grace,” he said, and resumed his post, shutting the door behind her.

Robert was standing in the middle of the room, pulling his breeches up. New breeches; he’d gained weight rapidly after the Greyjoy Rebellion and didn’t fit into any of his old ones anymore. The muscles of his arms were no longer visible under a layer of fat, and he had a second chin coming in. Cersei found him the most repulsive man she’d ever set eyes on. “What’s so godsdamned important that you have to interrupt me?” he snapped at her.

“You hired a maester for Joff,” she said. “I was not consulted.” 

There was a long pause. As she had thought, Robert didn’t care in the slightest about it. Certainly not enough to remember. “Jon mentioned something about it,” he said at last. “I let him do as he saw fit.”

“Lord Arryn?” Cersei said, now surprised as well as furious. “This was Lord Arryn’s idea?”

“So what if he did?” Robert walked to the table and filled a goblet of wine. He did not offer her any. “Gods know I’m not the cleverest man in the Seven Kingdoms, but even I know how to read and write. I can do my sums. Jon told me that Joff hadn’t even started to learn!”

“It was _my_ responsibility,” Cersei hissed back.

“Then get a new maester for him yourself, woman! I don’t care, as long as my son doesn’t end up an unlettered idiot.”

“I will, believe me.” She narrowed her eyes. “But I don’t want the Hand meddling in anything to do with Joff. Or Tommen. He runs your government, not your family.”

Robert waved it off. “If that’s all you wanted from me, get out.”

Cersei stormed out of the room, too angry to speak. She felt Ser Barristan’s eyes on her back all the way down the corridor.

So, Jon Arryn wanted to take her son from her, in spirit if not in body. It was not just younger and more beautiful queens she had to watch out for, but scheming old men as well. She would do well to remember that. For the moment she had best find a maester born and raised in the West to teach Joff. Maesters might say they gave up all loyalties to their old houses, but Cersei didn’t believe it for a second. She would not have some Vale man educate her son.

She needed Jaime back, before everything. He would protect her – protect their sons. If she asked, he would cut down Robert himself to protect her. But she was starting to form a plan, and she didn’t need him to kill the king quite yet.

Just the Hand.

 

\---

 

“Something’s wrong,” Rhaenys said when Jaime returned from his dinner. He’d caught up to her on one of Winterfell’s many covered bridges, where she was simply watching people go about their business.

“How wrong, exactly?” Jaime asked. He followed her gaze over the courtyard, but didn’t see anything even moderately unusual, much less _wrong_.

“Something’s wrong with Lady Catelyn,” Rhaenys clarified with a frown. “She’s really angry. She even told Robb she didn’t want him to spend time with Jon anymore.”

Jaime stifled a groan. That really was unusual. Lady Catelyn suffered her son’s friendship with his bastard brother in disapproving silence. He wished he hadn’t riled her up about it earlier in the day. Now there were going to be upset children all over Winterfell, and he couldn’t entirely escape them.

“Robb asked Lord Eddard about it,” Rhaenys continued, oblivious. “He said Lord Eddard said they really did fight about Jon.”

“You know how insulting it is for her for Jon Snow to be a part of the family,” Jaime pointed out.

“Jon’s upset too,” Rhaenys returned, a bit of steel in her voice. Jaime knew perfectly well where her priorities lay – she loved Lady Catelyn, but she loved Jon Snow more. And she’d never lost that protective streak.

“Give it a day or two,” Jaime said. “It’ll all blow over soon enough. Lady Catelyn’s probably just tired from your uncle’s visit.”

Rhaenys sighed, conceding the possibility. “Did you like him?” she asked. “You were so careful to keep away while we were speaking. It feels like I haven’t seen you for weeks.”

So she had noticed that. “I’m not supposed to be listening to your conversations, my lady,” he reminded her. “I’m just here to keep you safe. I don’t think your uncle’s much of a threat to you.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Ser Jaime!” She smiled at him. “You sound like you’re playing come-into-my-castle.”

“Mayhaps I am.”

“Ser Jaime!” Now she laughed, high and bright. She sounded very much like a child in that instant, for all she was eleven, nearly twelve. One day soon she would be a maiden flowered and a woman fit to wed. “I caught you. Now you have to answer me. No mayhaps!”

“Your uncle and I will never be bosom friends,” he confessed. “Even if our families – wait.” _This_ wasn’t right either. “My lady, has nobody _told_ you?”

“Told me what?”

Oh, _hells_. Jaime cursed. Now that he thought about it, it wasn’t so surprising. Lady Catelyn had told him once, long ago, that Stark didn’t talk about the end of the Rebellion. This fell under that category. If Lord Stark hadn’t said anything, Lady Catelyn wouldn’t either. That left Jaime, and he was possibly the worst person to tell Rhaenys why their families despised each other. “I don’t know if I should say,” he said.

“Say _what_?” Rhaenys persisted.

But she should know. She needed to know. It was important.

“My father was the one who ordered you and your brother to be killed.”

As soon as he said it, something behind Rhaenys’ eyes went out. She wasn’t focusing on him anymore, but something a long way behind his head. Tears welled up in her eyes and started spilling down her cheeks, but she paid them no mind at all. “My lady?” Jaime asked, and got no response. Not the slightest flicker of an eyelid. “Lady Rhaenys?”

A minute went past, and he was debating picking her up and carrying her to Luwin when she finally snapped out of it enough to sob. He could not help but be relieved; anything was better than that awful silence and lack of focus. “Are you all right?” he asked. 

Rhaenys shook her head.

“Should I take you to Maester Luwin?” he asked, just in case.

She shook her head again. Given the way she was weeping, Jaime was not convinced he shouldn’t just take her anyway. “Do you want to go back to your cell?” he tried, and this time Rhaenys nodded.

He walked with her back to her room in silence, stopping only to ask a servant to have Lady Rhaenys’ dinner taken directly to her cell. Her absence would be noted at some point, and no doubt he would be fielding questions from Lord or Lady Stark in the near future. He shouldn’t have told her. That was twice in one day he’d said something regrettable.

Rhaenys sat down heavily on her bed as soon as she reached it. Jaime shut the door behind him. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“ _Why?_ ” she asked.

“My father…” Jaime hesitated, not quite sure how to explain Lord Tywin to a child. “He isn’t like Lord Stark,” he said. _That’s bloody obvious._ “At the end of the Rebellion, he needed a way to prove that he was loyal to King Robert. He thought that if he had you and your brother killed, nobody would question his loyalties and King Robert’s throne would be safe.”

Rhaenys’ tears hadn’t stopped. Jaime poured her some water. “My mother?” she asked, once she’d drunk.

“He told me she wasn’t supposed to be hurt,” Jaime said, not mentioning that he had the horrible feeling that it had been a lie. 

“What about you?” she asked.

He flourished his white cloak in response, sweeping it away from his side like a lady’s skirts. “I was supposed to defend you, your brother, and your mother.” He couldn’t quite manage to say _and your grandfather_. He didn’t think he could say it without spitting, or telling her that he’d killed her grandfather himself. “I didn’t know my father gave the order until afterwards. Still, as Prince Oberyn pointed out, he is my father. I don’t like him, but he’s my father.”

To his surprise, Rhaenys nodded at that. “I don’t like my father either,” she said.

“You only know him from the songs,” Jaime said, only too eager to move the conversation away from Lord Tywin. “He was a decent man for the most part. Far better than his own father, from what I knew of them both.”

“Was your father angry with you? For saving me?”

“A bit. At that point, Lord Arryn had already said that you should wed King Robert’s son and Robert agreed, and you were safe as soon as they decided that,” Jaime said. “After that, my sister wed Robert. You’re betrothed to Lord Tywin’s eldest grandson. You’re safe from him. He won’t do anything to hurt you.”

_Anything more than he already has, that is._

Rhaenys was silent for a little while. Then she wiped her face on a sleeve, looked him in the eye, and said, “I don’t think I want to wed your nephew.”

“I understand,” Jaime said. “I don’t think you’ll be allowed to make that choice for yourself, though.” He smiled, and added, “But you’ll have me for an uncle. That can’t be all bad, can it?”

“No,” Rhaenys said. “That part sounds fine. Can you leave now, Ser Jaime? I don’t want to talk to anyone at the moment.”

“Very well.” Jaime bowed and left, as asked. But he had no intentions of just standing outside the door. Like it or not, Rhaenys was getting a visit from either Maester Luwin or Lady Catelyn.

 

\---

 

Catelyn had been expecting a knock on her chamber door, and she was not disappointed. “Come in,” she called, and Ned did. He shut the door behind him carefully, checking to make sure there was nobody outside.

“My lady.” He stood more than an arm’s length away from her. He did not sit down.

Catelyn, for her part, was still fully dressed and her hair still up in its style, though she usually let it down in her rooms after the evening meal. “Have you made a decision, my lord?”

“I have,” he said. “I promised my sister I would raise her son amongst his own family. I will not break that promise. Not even for you, my lady.”

“Not even for your children?” she asked. Though she was blindingly angry, the words came out calm. “Whether he is your bastard or a deposed prince, Jon Snow is dangerous to them.”

“Jon is my blood,” he said. “I have raised him as my son.”

She was not going to move him on this. No more than he could move her on the basic position that Jon Snow was unacceptably dangerous to have in Winterfell.

“Then it seems we are at an impasse, my lord,” she said.

Ned inclined his head. “It seems we are. What will you do?”

She sighed. “I won’t write to King’s Landing, for one thing. I don’t want you dead, my lord. I don’t want my children fatherless. Even if I was reconciled to a course of action that would undoubtedly get you killed, I don’t think your bannermen would look kindly on such an action on my part, at the very time I would be needed to help Robb adjust to his new duties. Nor would I want to arrange marriages for Sansa and Arya with a traitor’s name as coin. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Ned’s face was impassive, but Catelyn knew that he was relieved.

“But I cannot trust you anymore,” she continued. “You have shown me that you will not act in the best interests of our children. Your plan to conceal Jon Snow’s identity is shaky. _I can’t trust you_.” Her voice cracked on the words. “And, personally…you lied to me, Ned. You told me he was your bastard and kept him in Winterfell anyway. You were going to let me suffer.”

“I did,” he said. “I was. Now that you know everything, I would like to apologise to you, Cat. I never wanted to hurt you, but this was the only possible course of action. I am sorry.” 

“Sorry.” Catelyn shook her head, wishing she could close the distance between them. If she did, she would forgive him anything and everything, and let him continue to put her children in danger. “I would accept that apology and forgive you in a heartbeat if you would only do the right thing and send Jon Snow to be fostered elsewhere.”

“Which I cannot do.”

“What you will not do,” she corrected him.

“An impasse,” he said. “I am sorry for that too, my lady.”

“I am not. What you’ve done could get you and my children killed, if it’s ever discovered. It could start another war.”

Her husband nodded. “I suppose you’re right. I have no intentions of letting it get that far. I just want my nephew to grow up amongst his family and live a safe, anonymous life here in the North, far from men such as Tywin Lannister.”

“And where Robert Baratheon need never know about him,” Catelyn added. She had never met the king, but if he ever found out about Ned’s deception, it was likely that he would see Jon Snow as either the product of rape or evidence of Lyanna Stark’s treachery, and be incensed with her husband’s betrayal either way. That was on top of the threat to his throne. “I have one more request for you, my lord.”

“I will hear it,” Ned said. “I cannot promise to do what you ask.”

“Tell my children the truth,” she said. “I care not what you tell Jon Snow, though you should probably tell Rhaenys that she has a living brother. My children deserve to know the truth about their cousin, though, when they are old enough.”

“When they are old enough, and only then,” Ned agreed. “I will do that, my lady. And I have a request for you in turn. Please do not tell our children not to spend time with Jon.”

“No,” Catelyn said. “I will not do that. I will discourage my children from spending time with Jon Snow however I can. If he is ever discovered, I won’t have my children throwing themselves after him.”

That provoked enough anger to show through Ned’s impassive mask. “My lady –“

“ _No_ ,” she said, more firmly. “You are taking risks. I am minimising them.”

“Another impasse.”

“Indeed.”

They stood there in silence, neither moving an inch. Catelyn broke it. “I cannot imagine we can have much more to say on this topic.”

“No,” Ned said. “Neither of us will change our minds.”

“Then…I suppose we are done with each other until one of us _does_ change their opinion.” It was with a heavy heart that she said the words. She loved Ned. She just couldn’t trust him. Or follow along while he endangered her children.

“I will not intrude on you any longer, my lady.” And she knew Ned well enough to tell that this saddened him as well. “Goodnight.”

She watched him leave. It was for the best. It was. She looked at Bran, who had slept peacefully all through her confrontation with his father. It was for him, and Robb, and Sansa, and Arya.

It was cold comfort in her cold bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thank you guys so much for the response to the last chapter! Thanking you in advance for your responses to this one!
> 
> ETA 7/5: To anyone who may be reading - I'm sorry! There is going to be a significant delay before the next chapter. I'm very busy, I've been very busy since I posted the last chapter, and I can't see the workload getting lighter in the immediate future. I do work on the chapter every day, even if it's just a few sentences. You'll get it eventually, I promise!


	11. Necessary Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone needs a little time away from home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh I am so sorry. I got there eventually. And in less than a month. As for warnings, there's a discussion of corporal punishment.

Ned went to breakfast earlier than usual the next morning in a state of profound gloom. In truth he hadn’t expected Catelyn to compromise on the issue, but their failure to reach any sort of reconciliation was disheartening. Then he’d slept poorly on an unfamiliar bed. The bed was technically his own, but he had used it so infrequently in the past few years it felt like he was away from his home.

He passed Ser Jaime on his way from the hall. “Lord Stark,” the other man greeted him.

“Ser Jaime.”

“Lady Rhaenys may wish to speak with you today,” he said. Ned noticed he wasn’t smiling. “She asked me last night why I did not get along with her uncle, and I fear I told her of my father’s involvement in the murders of her mother and brother.”

That was all that Ned needed. “I see. And how did she take it?”

“Not well, Lord Stark. I had to find Maester Luwin to give her something to ease her to sleep.”

Ned sighed. “I had hoped to tell her myself, when she was a bit older.”

“I shouldn’t have said it, I admit.”

Ned looked at him with a bit of shock. Regret was not Jaime Lannister’s style. He usually flaunted his mistakes, never seeming ashamed of them in the slightest, much less repentant. It baffled Ned, and had ever since he’d met the man. _Especially_ since he’d met Ser Jaime shortly after the man had abandoned Aerys to his death. “No,” Ned agreed. He didn't have the energy to be angry.

“Too late now.”

“Yes,” Ned said shortly, thinking of all his other problems. “I will answer her questions as best I can, though I do not think I will be able to soothe any of her fears.” Aegon’s smashed head. Elia’s hard death. The work of Tywin Lannister.

As Ser Jaime left, Ned wondered if Lord Tywin was a good father to his children. Ser Jaime never spoke of him, never wrote to him, save for the very few occasions when his father wrote to him first. By contrast, Ser Jaime wrote regularly to his brother, and obviously cared for his sister a great deal as well. So if he had to, Ned would guess not. _Everything that blood and money can buy, but not a jot of affection._

It wouldn’t surprise him.

He kept himself busy all morning, first with correspondence – disturbing reports from Bear Island told that Jorah Mormont was squandering his family’s coin on his Hightower wife – and then riding out to conduct an execution. He did not think he could bear to see Catelyn. He wasn’t sure he could bear to see Jon, either, the reminder of Lya too strong for him to handle at the moment. It was Brandon he wanted to talk to, their father or Jon Arryn, even Benjen. But Lya and Lord Rickard were dead, and Benjen and Jon Arryn were both far away.

_You knew you’d have to pay a price, Eddard Stark_ , he told himself. _You cannot ask any more of Catelyn than that she keep the secret. You scarce have the right to ask even silence of her._

When he returned from the execution, he saw Ser Jaime practicing in the yard, and he knew that if Rhaenys truly did want to speak with him, she would ask now, while her protector and usual companion was otherwise occupied. Sure enough, he found Rhaenys waiting outside his solar door. “Come inside,” he said, and opened the door. She followed him in.

Rhaenys did not look well – wan and exhausted, her braid coming undone. She fell into the seat across from Ned more than she sat on it. “You wanted to speak to me?”

“Do I _have_ to marry the prince?” she asked him. No hesitation, no evasive lead-in. Just a blunt question.

“Yes,” he said, equally blunt. There was no easing that truth. “For lords and ladies of our station – and princes, too – we have little choice in who we wed. You would be an asset to anyone wishing to challenge Robert’s rule. By marrying Robert’s eldest son, hopefully some of the bitterness in the realm can be soothed and conflict averted. You are the only one who can do this.”

His ward huddled in her seat and looked even more miserable.

“I know what Ser Jaime told you,” Ned continued. “It’s true. And you will likely have to face Lord Tywin, not just once but several times, and treat him cordially in spite of the crimes he has committed against you. It will be difficult, but you must needs bear it.”

“He had my mother killed,” Rhaenys said.

_And your brother_. _One of them._ “He did. It was wrong. King Robert was wrong to let it pass. You and your uncles were done a grave injustice.”

“I hate him!”

“That is your right,” Ned told her. “Unfortunately, it changes nothing. For the sake of the realm, you must still wed Prince Joffrey. It is your duty.” He caught her gaze and held it. “The prince is not his grandfather. For your own sake, I hope that you can come to care for him, and that he can come to care for you. The circumstances surrounding your marriage need not make your life together miserable, no more than my brother’s death has prevented Lady Catelyn and I from building a life together.”

The words were the product of years of happiness. Though he could never entirely rid himself of the feeling that everything he had should have been Brandon’s instead, Ned loved Catelyn, and Catelyn loved him in return. It had not been enough to overcome their irreconcilable difference, and he would not be going to her chambers when he retired this evening, but his own. By himself. He might even miss being woken by Bran’s cries.

“You need not be unhappy,” he repeated.

Rhaenys did not seem reassured. “But what if I am? What if he’s horrible?”

“Then you will be unhappy,” Ned said, heart heavy. He had feared that when he wed Catelyn, and feared it more again when he brought Jon home. He did not wish such fear and unhappiness on anyone, much less on a young girl he’d raised in his own household. “The next king to sit the throne will be an unkind man. And the realm will still be at peace.”

 

\---

 

Her chance came with an announcement by raven.

“A tourney?” Cersei asked.

“You heard me.” For the roughness of his words, Robert was in a far better mood today than she had seen him recently. There were traces of a smile on his ugly face, underneath his ugly beard.

_All it takes to distract him is the mention of a tourney_.

“So says Hoster Tully, anyhow,” Robert said. “I’ll wager he wants to see his daughters and grandchildren. All four of them!” He chuckled. “Never thought Ned had it in him.”

“My father is the eldest of five,” Cersei replied coldly. She did not care how many brats Ned Stark’s wife whelped for him. Robert, on the other hand, was happier to hear his friend had a new child than he had been when Cersei presented him with Joffrey, and later, Tommen. “It is hardly that unusual. Certainly nothing like the Freys.”

It was a sign of Robert’s good mood that he didn’t react. “Maybe Ned will come himself,” he mused.

If Cersei had to go to Riverrun with him, she hoped Stark _did_ rouse himself from Winterfell, and spare her some of Robert’s attentions. He could be quite insistent about his rights while they were on the road. If he were out getting drunk with his precious Ned, he wouldn’t be stumbling into her bed. She was dreading the journey already.

But, if the entire Stark household turned out for the occasion…the little Lady of Dragonstone might be there as well, and with her, Jaime. “When will this tourney be, my lord?” she asked. 

“Four moons,” Robert said, mind clearly still in the North. “Plenty of time for Ned to make it down.”

_It’s not Ned Stark that I want to see._

There was someone she could talk to, to ensure Jaime did attend the Riverrun tourney. Not Robert. What she had in mind, Robert would not quietly acquiesce to. But for Jaime’s sake, she could swallow just that little bit of pride and speak to Jon Arryn.

The Hand of the King was in the middle of an appointment when Cersei walked in unannounced. At first she thought that Arryn was talking to a boy, but when the guest raised his head and Cersei saw his face, she realised he was a man. Young, short, slight, rather dandyish, but a man grown. His small beard made him look only a little older; his mischievous, slightly impudent smile undid the work the beard did. “Your grace,” Arryn said, “allow me to introduce you to Lord Petyr Baelish, of the Fingers. Lord Baelish, her grace Queen Cersei. Lord Baelish worked for me as a customs officer in Gulltown; he will be working for the Master of Coin in King’s Landing.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, your grace,” Baelish said, with a second bow every bit as deep as his first. 

“Indeed,” Cersei replied. Just another Arryn weasel. She dismissed him from her thoughts. “Lord Arryn, a moment of your time, if you would.”

“Of course, your grace. Lord Baelish, we’ll finish this discussion another time.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the little man said. “Your grace.” He dipped another courtly bow, and was gone.

Cersei took his place in the seat across from Arryn without waiting for an invitation. “Robert tells me that there is to be a tourney at Riverrun in a few moons’ time. Will you be attending, my lord?”

“Regrettably not,” Arryn said. “Robert plans to go, and one of us must stay in King’s Landing. My wife plans to attend, however.”

So once again, she had been the last to know. Arryn must have been one of the first, to have made his arrangements in advance. Cersei didn’t care a groat for Lysa Arryn, either, but since she wanted something from him she smiled. “That is a shame. I came here to ask a small favour of you, my lord.”

“Ask, your grace, and I will do my utmost to help you.” _I will help you only if I want to, and you cannot make me do elsewise_ , Cersei heard. How she hated Arryn. How she hated asking him for this.

It would be worth it if it meant she could see Jaime again.

“Would you write Lord Stark for me? I greatly desire to meet my son’s betrothed for myself. Not to mention to introduce her to Joffrey.” It was a reasonable request. Robert would never think such a thing was necessary or desirable, and the authority of the queen was not enough to bring one of the king’s hostages south.

She wasn’t fooling Jon Arryn, she could see. But no matter her motives, the request was a reasonable one, a mother’s prerogative, and the only reason to refuse her was spite.

“I will do that, your grace,” Arryn said after a long, searching look at her. “However, I will leave the ultimate decision to Lord Stark. Rhaenys Targaryen is his responsibility. It may be he feels that her staying in Winterfell for the meantime is best for her.”

“And what about my son?” Cersei asked. “What about what is best for him? I should have liked an opportunity to meet Robert before I wed him and I will not subject my son to the same experience if it is within my power. I am not asking the girl to come all the way to the Red Keep by herself. Surely Catelyn Tully, at least, will be attending. It’s hardly an imposition at all.”

“Be that as it may. I agree that it is a good idea for her to meet Prince Joffrey, and I will write to Lord Stark on your behalf and add my voice to your own. I simply make no guarantee of his response. Nor will I force him to bring her to Riverrun in the event that he declines.”

He _could_. Arryn had every right to make Rhaenys Targaryen come to Riverrun. If he decided that she would be better off living with her Dornish uncles, there she would go. If he decided he wanted the girl in the Red Keep, she would live there. Robert probably wouldn’t care as long as he never had to see her. Arryn just wanted her to know that she couldn’t make him do anything.

“I thank you,” she said, and the words tasted foul in her mouth.

Arryn stood, a less than subtle signal that he no longer wanted her in his solar. “It is my pleasure to help you in this matter, your grace.”

She swept out of the room, unable and unwilling to grovel any further. She should not have to lower herself so. She was the _queen_.

Arryn would be the first to die, when the time was right for her to move. Joff was still too young. Father might insist Joff or Tommen be taken away from her, whether they were taken to squire as Jaime was when they were young, or whether Cersei herself was ordered back to Casterly Rock. In her darkest moments Cersei was sure that if Robert should die young, her father would simply order her to wed again. Jaime himself was still in Stark’s hands. Not yet. She could not do anything drastic quite yet.

But in two years, or three… 

She hoped Arryn would have the courtesy not to die before she had Jaime kill him, she truly did.

“I’m going to get him back for us,” she whispered to Tommen that evening. Her younger son was too young to understand, and therefore safe to talk to. Everything would be better when she had Jaime back. “Robert won’t say no forever.”

 

\---

 

Jaime had been sure, when he told Rhaenys that Lord Stark and Lady Catelyn would kiss and make up, that they would indeed kiss and make up. It had been almost two months since then, but no. They had not. Jaime could well remember the mood at Casterly Rock when Tywin was angry. Everyone walked on eggshells when that happened, from Cersei and Jaime to the meanest scullery maid. It reminded him a bit of that.

There was a pattern developing, however. Lady Catelyn had started to take half her dinners in her rooms, while Lord Stark was increasingly breaking his fast before most of the household was awake. That way, each of them got to take a meal with the children, without awkward encounters between the two.

When they _were_ at the same table, they simply did not speak to each other. Whatever they’d fought about – Jaime believed Rhaenys’ report that the fight had been about Jon Snow and his continued presence at Winterfell – it had developed into something serious.

The children were already changing their habits to accommodate it.

“You shouldn’t skip breakfast,” Rhaenys told Jon Snow after he missed the morning meal two days in a row. It had not escaped Rhaenys’ notice that both had been days that Lord Eddard had not been at breakfast either.

Robb and Snow looked at each other, and Robb was the one to answer. “My mother-“ he began, but Rhaenys cut him off.

“Lady Catelyn wouldn’t want him to _starve_ ,” she insisted. And she was almost certainly right about that, Jaime thought. Lady Catelyn had been turning an especially nasty glare on Snow recently, most often when she saw him with his brother, but that was as far as it went. “She’s not as scary as your father can be,” Rhaenys continued, and about that she was wrong. Jon Snow definitely found Lady Catelyn scarier. Jaime could see it in his eyes.

Robb, on the other hand, had noticed something else. “She never thrashes you or anything,” he pointed out.

“That’s right,” Rhaenys agreed. “You don’t have anything to be scared of. She doesn’t even scold you.”

That was true. Lady Catelyn switched Robb and Sansa, and even Rhaenys a few times, but never Jon Snow. Lord Eddard, however, used the strap for the most serious misbehaviour, in combination with a stern lecture and usually a bread-and-water diet for the next day. His grim face throughout the entire experience – his announcement of the punishment, the lecture, and the strapping itself – was considered by Lady Catelyn’s children and ward to be far scarier than any of Lady Catelyn’s quick spats across their palms or backsides. Greyjoy had got a bad thrashing from Lord Eddard a few weeks ago, for knocking over Old Nan on the stairs. Since then he had been particularly careful looking around corners, to Jaime’s amusement.

“And you can see Sansa more often if you come for breakfast,” Rhaenys added. Young Sansa had started lessons recently, which she often took while Jon and Robb were playing. The siblings saw each other considerably less often than they had before.

“Sansa’s _boring_ though,” Robb complained. “She only ever wants to talk about knights and princesses.”

“When we play she always makes me be the villain,” Jon said.

Jaime wasn’t fooled though. Just like he didn’t mind playing with Tyrion, Robb and Snow didn’t truly mind humouring little Sansa with her games. If they did, they wouldn’t play with her at all. It was just as well, because while Rhaenys was happy to tell Sansa stories and draw pictures for her, she refused to play knights and princesses. Absolutely refused. Jaime did not blame her in the slightest. 

“You should still talk to her though,” Rhaenys said. “And you shouldn’t miss breakfast either.” And that was the end of that, as far as she was concerned. If Snow didn’t come for breakfast tomorrow morning, she (meaning Jaime as well) would likely scour Winterfell for him and possibly drag him bodily to the hall to eat.

When they were alone later, he did feel he had to say something. “You’re wrong about the switching,” he told her. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Snow would be less scared of Lady Catelyn if she switched him as well. If she did that, then she wouldn’t be treating him any different to you or her own children.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Rhaenys said.

“Ask him if you don’t believe me. He’s scared of how she looks at him, not of getting hit.” He knew what fear looked like.

“I don’t know, Ser Jaime,” she said. “Theon’s always scared of getting a thrashing, and he’s my age. Jon’s even younger. Why wouldn’t he be scared?”

“Greyjoy probably got belted by every drunken ironman he ever annoyed,” Ser Jaime said. “It’s not the only way to scare a boy.” His father had never laid a hand on Tyrion, ever. Even when he found out about Tysha, he hadn’t hit Tyrion himself. And Tyrion had been scared of their father all his life – though not scared enough.

Jaime wondered how his brother was. They’d exchanged letters, as promised, but words were Tyrion’s forte, not his. If he could see Tyrion, in person, he’d know more.

Unsurprisingly, his letters never mentioned his erstwhile wife.

“Lady Catelyn wouldn’t hurt Jon,” Rhaenys insisted, interrupting Jaime’s bout of concern. “I know she doesn’t want him in Winterfell, but she wouldn’t actually _do_ anything to him.”

“No, she wouldn’t,” Jaime agreed. Rhaenys was too young to remember how carefully Princess Elia had stepped around the Red Court, that year before the rebellion broke out. There was little Aerys could do to harm Elia physically, but he still hated her and possessed the power to make her life a misery. That was all it took. But then again, Lady Catelyn really wouldn’t hurt Snow. “You can’t protect him from everything, though,” he said.

She gave him a look that said quite clearly, _I can try_.

 

\---

 

Lady Catelyn called her and Robb and Sansa to her rooms one afternoon. Jon looked after them curiously, but he knew better than to listen at Lady Catelyn’s door, and anyway, Robb would tell him everything afterwards.

Sansa had seen Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard talking the day before. She had been very excited, since she thought her parents might start getting along again, but then Lady Catelyn didn’t come for dinner. She had cried a little, later, in the nursery, and Rhaenys did her best to comfort her. Even Arya had tried to help, offering her sister her favourite toy to make her feel better.

Lady Catelyn was smiling and holding a letter when they arrived. “I have had a raven from my father,” she said. Rhaenys remembered that Hoster Tully, Lady Catelyn’s father, was the Lord of Riverrun and the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. “He has invited us to Riverrun.”

Robb beamed. Of the Stark children, he was the only one who had ever met his grandfather, even if he couldn’t remember it. Sansa looked more apprehensive, but then she loved Winterfell and didn’t like horses or wagons. Travelling was therefore not her favourite thing to do.

“There will be a tourney while we are there, to celebrate my brother’s nameday,” Lady Catelyn continued. _That_ overcame Sansa’s reservations; horses and wagons could be endured if that meant she could see some proper knights and ladies in pretty dresses. “We will be staying for six weeks.”

“Me, too?” Rhaenys asked.

“Yes, you too,” Lady Catelyn said. “I think it a good idea for you to meet my father and brother. If we are fortunate, my sister, Lady Arryn, will come as well.” Her smile fell away a bit. “Lord Stark has given his permission for you to attend, and of course Ser Jaime will be coming with us.” 

“When are we going?” Robb asked. “Will it be soon?”

“Not as soon as you might wish, my sweet,” Lady Catelyn told her eldest. “We will be leaving in three moons.”

Something occurred to Rhaenys then, but she held her tongue. It had occurred to Robb as well, she could see, but he too knew better than to mention it. Lady Catelyn hadn’t mentioned it for a reason. They could guess.

Sansa, though… “Will Father come too?”

The look on Lady Catelyn’s face could have frozen over the hot springs. “No,” she said. “Your father intends to stay in Winterfell. Theon Greyjoy will be staying here as well,” she added with a glance at Robb. There had never been any question of Jon being allowed to come, and even Sansa knew better than to ask her mother that.

More than two moons away from Winterfell, counting the time it would take to get to Riverrun and back. That was a long time. There would be a lot of knights at a tourney, too – Rhaenys didn’t trust knights. She would definitely have to take her dagger, even if Lady Catelyn might find out she had one.

“ _All_ of you?” Jon asked, when she and Robb told him the bad news.

“Lord Eddard’s staying here,” Rhaenys said.

“Theon too,” Robb added, and Jon rewarded him with a disgusted glare. Jon might have got used to Theon being around, but that didn’t mean he liked him.

“We’re not going for another three moons though,” she said. “That’s still a long time.”

Jon gave her more or less the same expression he’d given Robb. “You’re still going to go,” he said.

“I don’t _want_ to go to Riverrun,” she snapped at him. “It’s not our fault you’re going to be left here with stupid Theon.”

“It’s not my fault either!”

Rhaenys stormed off before she started yelling at him. It wasn’t Jon’s fault, she knew, just like she knew he was jealous. She just really didn’t want to go to a tourney. If it was only to meet Lady Catelyn’s family it might be all right, but there were going to be so many other people there. Men with swords. She took a deep breath, and then another. It was four moons away. Ser Jaime was coming too. She could handle it. She’d say sorry to Jon for snapping at him later.

She was coping reasonably well until, a week later, Lord Eddard called her into his solar. “I have had a raven from the Hand concerning you,” he said. “He wishes for you to attend the Riverrun tourney.”

“I am,” Rhaenys said, confused. “Lady Catelyn said so.”

“The king and queen will be attending,” Lord Eddard said. “Along with the prince. Lord Arryn writes that the queen wishes to meet with you. And, no doubt, she wishes for you to meet the prince as well.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say, or even what to think. She didn’t really _have_ any opinions on the prince himself, beyond not liking the idea of meeting his grandfather. “I suppose I’d like that,” she ventured. If she recalled correctly, he was younger than Jon and Robb, but older than Sansa. Maybe he wouldn’t be so bad to spend time with. She hoped. If she absolutely had to wed him, she hoped he was nice.

“You will have to be on your very best behaviour,” Lord Eddard warned her. “And you must be prepared. If you should meet King Robert, he will likely be…discourteous…to you. You must not react to his insults. If he tells you to leave his presence, do so immediately. It would be best, of course, if you could avoid him as much as possible, but at the very least an introduction will be necessary. If not at Riverrun, then later.”

“Why?” Rhaenys asked. “I mean, why do you think the king will be rude?”

“Robert hasn’t forgiven your father,” Lord Eddard said curtly. “It may be he cannot look at you without being reminded of him. It would be wrong of him to transfer his grudge to you, but transfer it he may.” There was a trace of sympathy in his stern face then. “I would not have you walk into the situation blindly.” 

It seemed like just about everyone hated her father. He _had_ been a raper, so it wasn’t undeserved, Rhaenys knew. But she was the one who had to live with his surname. “Did you ever hate him?” she asked.

The sympathy vanished from Lord Eddard’s face, replaced by an expression as impassive as the walls of Winterfell. “Your father is long dead,” he said. “There is no point in holding a grudge against him, much less against you.”

It wasn’t an answer. Rhaenys decided not to push it. The answer was probably _yes_.

“The queen wants to speak to you as well,” Lord Eddard reminded her, changing the topic. “I do not know what she might want from you, but I expect you to make a good impression on her. If Lady Catelyn has advice for you in this regard, take it.”

“I will,” Rhaenys promised.

“Good.” Lord Eddard sighed. “I am sorry about all this. I’d hoped the trip would be more enjoyable for you.”

“It’s all right,” Rhaenys said. “I can manage.” She’d just have to be brave. Insults about her family wouldn’t hurt that much. The queen might not be so bad. If she watched her back around the knights, she might just be able to do this.

 

\---

 

“Two hundred and ninety-eight, two hundred and ninety-nine, three hundred.” 

That was the last of them. Exactly three hundred bottles. It had been all Davos could do to stay in the under-cellar and count the bottles of wildfire calmly. Twice, so he was sure he hadn’t made a mistake. He didn’t dare move them himself. He hadn’t even dared to bring his lamp near the shelves.

It was a nerve-wracking task Lord Stannis and Lord Arryn had given him.

Months of carefully asking questions had yielded few results, though only a fool would say it hadn’t been worthwhile. Two caches of wildfire found. The other one had been two hundred and ninety-nine bottles. The first three, the ones Lord Stannis had called him here for, had been three hundred bottles, three hundred and two bottles, and three hundred bottles again.

He had talked to a few old friends. As best he could tell, no wildfire had been sold from King’s Landing, or at least not so much as to make an impression. “Who would move it?” one of Davos’ contacts had asked, horrified. Davos had no doubt that there were captains mad enough to carry wildfire, though a single accident with a lamp would condemn the entire crew to death. On the bright side, he hadn't found any.

Since then, Davos had concentrated his efforts in the city. One of the caches he had found had been not all that far away from the first three, over near the Iron Gate, but this one just now...this one worried him.

It was a very long way away from where the others had been found. A very bad idea was forming in his head.

He climbed the stairs back up to street level. “Thank you for your cooperation,” Davos told the landlord, who had allowed him in as soon as he heard the word “contraband.” “Please say nothing of this to anyone. You will hear from me again shortly.”

The landlord nodded, clearly concerned. Just as well Davos had not told the man precisely what he was looking for.

Lord Arryn had charged him not to let the people of the city know what he was searching for, but in this case it was unavoidable. The rumour that had led him here had said the rooms here, and the cellars, had been abandoned before the Sack, the man who lived there killed at the Battle of the Bells and his wife and children fled. When it had been reinhabited after the Sack, the boarded-up under-cellar had gone unnoticed by the new residents.

They were all very fortunate that the building hadn’t been torched by Tywin Lannister's men.

Three hundred bottles of wildfire, the pyromancers had told Davos, would be enough to destroy the Sept of Baelor. What it would do a row of ordinary townhouses did not bear thinking about. Then, every house nearby would burn too. And, quite possibly, the Gate of the Gods as well.

Davos marked the house and went to call a meeting with Lord Stannis.

Within two hours he faced Stannis across the desk in the same solar they had met in when Lord Arryn gave him the job. Stannis started grinding his teeth as soon as Davos told him where he’d found the cache. “Near the Gate of the Gods,” he said, voice flat.

“Yes,” Davos said.

“That is a long way from the stores found around Rhaenys’ Hill.”

“And almost as far from the Guildhall, yes. Though an easier walk. Very flat.”

“You mean to tell me our wildfire thieves marched three hundred bottles of the stuff down one of the busiest roads in the city in broad daylight, hid them all in a house near the Gate of the Gods, and hoped for the best?”

“It might not have been in broad daylight, my lord.”

Stannis stood up and started to pace around the room. “There were people in the building?”

“Four families. I only spoke to the landlord, on the ground floor, and did not mention wildfire.”

“I will deal with that myself,” Stannis decided. “You’ve done well thus far, Ser Davos, but there is something Lord Arryn and myself both want.”

“A culprit,” Davos said. “I know. My lord, I do not believe we are dealing with common thieves.”

Stannis snorted.

“Nor even uncommon ones,” Davos continued. 

That caught Lord Stannis’ attention, but he did not stop pacing. “Explain.”

“Three hundred bottles,” Davos said. “It’s only a feeling. Every batch found so far has been three hundred bottles, more or less one or two. Counting errors. If there were thieves taking them as the opportunity arose, I’d expect the shipments to be less even in size. One of two hundred and fifty bottles, another of three hundred and fifteen, and so on.”

He hesitated, but ploughed ahead with the worst of it. “I talked to the pyromancers about how much three hundred bottles of wildfire might burn. From where the caches were found, it seems very precisely calculated to burn everything on Rhaenys' Hill and around it to ashes, from the Old Gate to the Iron Gate.” His old home of Flea Bottom would likely not escape such a blaze. He hadn’t been sorry to leave it behind, but he and Marya both might well have kin there yet.

Stannis stopped in his tracks. “A quarter of the city. Thousands of lives.”

“Every man who could tell me of wildfire orders in the last days of Aerys’ reign is dead, according to the pyromancers,” Davos said. “All killed during the Sack.”

He could see the veins standing out in Stannis’s neck. And Davos had just found another cache near the Gate of the Gods. The problem could extend to half the city. The problem could extend to the _whole_ city. From the alchemists’ books, they might have had enough wildfire to burn King’s Landing to the ground.

“Keep searching,” Stannis ordered. “The Hand must know of this. We may have to take this to the King eventually, and tear down the Guildhall of Alchemists if it comes to that. If you find any solid evidence that there was a conspiracy to destroy the city, come to me immediately.”

“If there was a conspiracy,” Davos wondered aloud, “who ordered it?”

The wildfire order had been Aerys’. For military purposes, the pyromancers had said. Until now, they had assumed it had only been filled in part, as they could neither find much of it, and it definitely had not been used during Robert’s Rebellion. 

But if it had been hidden in the city…Davos shuddered. _Aerys was a simple man with simple tastes._ A drunk Jaime Lannister had told him that, the night before the battle off Fair Isle. _He would have burned the whole forest to the ground._

He needed more proof. For that, he needed more wildfire. Lord Stannis would settle for nothing less.

And there was another question bothering him: who had known? If this was true, and someone ( _Aerys_ ) had planned to burn down King’s Landing, who would have known to kill the pyromancers?

 

\---

 

Ned prepared for his wife and children to leave Winterfell with a good deal of trepidation.

The letter from Lord Hoster telling him of the tourney had presented him with a problem. He had long wanted Catelyn to have the opportunity to visit her father, particularly if her sister would be there as well. He knew his wife loved her sister dearly. After weeks of painful distance between them, he could think of nothing better than encouraging her to spend some time at her childhood home.

A tourney, however, was different. The letter from Jon Arryn had confirmed that Lady Lysa would be attending, which was all to the good for Catelyn, but it had also confirmed that Robert would be attending as well, along with his queen. Two of the biggest threats to Jon Snow’s safety, right there in Riverrun.

Given how matters stood between him and his wife, what had driven a wedge between them and why, he could not help but worry.

“I would like to go, regardless,” Catelyn had said, when he asked her to his solar for a private discussion. Once upon a time they would have talked in her rooms. Now he called her in to speak with him almost as he would a steward. “Do you still intend to permit me, my lord?”

“Of course,” he said. It would not come across well, if he suddenly intervened to prevent his wife visiting her father, the instant he heard the king would be at the tourney. While probably not dangerous, it would be exceptionally impolite. He had to act as though he had nothing to hide.

It was so much easier to avoid Robert when the king was in King’s Landing. 

Catelyn snapped his thoughts back to the present. “Then why did you call me here?” He could see her nostrils flare and her shoulders stiffen, unmistakeable signs that she was angry. “Do you doubt me?”

_Yes, my lady_. He loved her – a few weeks of chilly separation could not erase years of love – but while this lay between them, he could not trust her as he would like. No more than she felt she could trust him.

She could clearly read that doubt on his face. Over the years he had lost the ability to hide most anything from her, and now she had his last secret from him. “How dare you?” she asked. “I said I would keep your secret, and I will. I understand well why you did what you did. The sight of Robert Baratheon is hardly going to compel me to tell him everything. I have my own honour, my lord, and I intend to keep it.”

There was very little he could say to that, and nothing he truly wanted to say either. The lies he had told, continued to tell, for the sake of protecting Jon meant grave insults to Catelyn, who had been blameless in the whole affair. In this he deserved her anger. 

She saw he had no answer, or at least no answer she could possibly accept, and left the room without another word herself.

The night before they were all due to leave, Jon Snow did not join the other children after the evening meal, but instead retreated to his cell, and Ned was reminded of who else his lies had hurt. He wished he could have told Catelyn Jon was his nephew to start with, but Brandon had been dead a year when Jon was born (and a supposed bastard of Brandon’s would have worried her just as much as a bastard of Ned’s own), while Benjen had been in Winterfell for the entire Rebellion. The lie would not have withstood scrutiny.

For Ned to keep his promise to Lya, Jon had to live his life as an insult to Catelyn. It was better than the alternatives, but that was the best that could be said for the arrangement.

“Your brothers and sisters will miss you as much as you will miss them,” he told his nephew. “You should spend time with them tonight.”

“I just want to go,” Jon said. Ned rarely heard him sound so miserable. “I’d behave. Lady Stark wouldn’t have to see me.”

“You know that isn’t possible,” Ned said, gently as he could. “I would have to force Lady Stark to take you. That would make her angry, and it would make her father and brother angry as well. It would be…a great humiliation to her.” That was understating it, too.

Catelyn knew the truth, of course, but the appearances mattered, and neither of them were at liberty to explain. Not even to Jon himself, at present. 

“I haven’t done anything to her! It isn’t fair!”

“Very little is,” Ned said, speaking from bitter experience. If life was fair, Ned would never have been given this task.

“You will be treated differently from your siblings all your life, and it will likely take worse forms than being denied a trip to Riverrun,” he continued, and he sat down next to Jon as the boy angrily scrubbed tears from his eyes. “It isn’t your fault, but it is how it is. I do my best to treat you equally to your siblings, but I cannot protect you from everything. Some things, you will have to make your own peace with.”

He waited while Jon composed himself. “You can start by saying your goodbyes to your siblings,” Ned said, standing. “Come.” 

Jon followed him back to the fireplace Ned liked to tell stories beside, and took a seat on the floor next to Arya. If Robb noticed Jon’s red eyes, he had the sense not to mention it.

 

\---

 

_This is a different sort of journey entirely_ , Jaime thought, surveying the procession getting ready to leave Winterfell. He had never been on the road with so many children and so few fighting men. Lady Catelyn might have the nurse to help her, but Arya and Bran would be unbearable within a league. She had insisted on bringing them, arguing that it could be many years before their grandfather had the opportunity to meet them otherwise.

The older children might not be much better behaved, he realised.

“I’ll draw you pictures,” Rhaenys promised Jon Snow. The boy had been sulking almost non-stop for the past week, but if there was one place in the Seven Kingdoms that Ned Stark’s bastard would definitely never be welcome, it was at Riverrun. Everyone knew it, Snow included.

“All right,” the boy said, with at attempt at good grace. “I don’t want you to go, though. Or Robb.” Jaime should be a little easier on him. Snow was only seven, and watching all his siblings leave. Cersei hadn't liked it when Jaime was fostered out either.

“We’ll be back in two moons’ time,” Rhaenys said. “It’s not that long.” She was trying to convince herself as much as she was Snow. Jaime knew that she didn’t want to go either. He also knew that Cersei had asked especially, persuading Jon Arryn to ask Lord Stark as well. He knew his sister; he knew it was him that Cersei _really_ wanted to see. It was unfortunate that Rhaenys had got caught in her scheme.

Over by the carriage, Sansa was clinging to her father’s legs. Lord Stark seemed to be there only to see his children off, as he steadfastly avoided looking at Lady Catelyn for more than a few seconds. “Enjoy meeting your grandfather, little one,” he said to his elder daughter.

Robb, meanwhile, was saying his farewells to Theon Greyjoy, the only Stark who seemed at all sorry to leave him in Winterfell. “I’ll tell you all about the melee,” he assured Greyjoy, though Jaime put little faith in a seven-year-old’s ability to recount a melee with accuracy. “Maybe next time Father will let you come.”

Jaime doubted that, too. Lord Stark was too cautious to allow Theon Greyjoy to stray far from his seat of power. Perhaps Greyjoy would be permitted to travel as far as White Harbor or Barrowton, under close supervision, but certainly not beyond the North. Lady Catelyn, who had seen some of Greyjoy’s unthinking, petty cruelty to cats, dogs, servants, and small children, was unlikely to fight for the pleasure of his company. 

All the goodbyes grated on his nerves. He wanted to _go_ , already. Jaime nodded goodbye to Lord Stark and an irate-looking Jon Snow, ignored Theon Greyjoy entirely, and rode out of Winterfell’s gates ahead of the procession.

The winter town was still empty, as there had been not the slightest sign of summer abating. Even during the winter years Jaime had been here, the town had been smaller than Lannisport. Now only those few smallfolk who preferred to live outside Winterfell’s walls resided here. He rode as far as the edge of the town, and waited for everyone else to catch up.

Rhaenys was the first – she was old enough to ride a proper horse, now, a chestnut palfrey Lord Eddard had given her. It was on the small side, but nimble enough, and far better than a pony. “You should stay closer to the carriage once we get further out from Winterfell,” he warned her. “It’s safer.”

“All right,” she said, and true to her word, she kept her palfrey close by him until everyone else caught up. Lady Stark and her children had to travel with at least a few guards.

Robb was bouncing in his seat already. “Mother, how far is it to Riverrun?”

It was going to be a very long journey.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen your family, my lady?” Jaime asked Lady Catelyn, three days of painfully slow travel later. The younger two children were asleep in the nurse’s care, Rhaenys was entertaining Sansa, and Robb had wheedled his way into riding with a guardsman. Lady Catelyn had taken the opportunity to get out of the carriage and ride herself, for a little while. “Seven years?”

“Something like that,” she said. “When I left Riverrun, Edmure was still a little boy. It’s hard to believe it’s nearly his sixteenth nameday. And Lysa! I haven’t even had a letter from her in years. I hope they’ve been well.” She smiled at him. “Your brother and mine are of an age, are they not? Will he be attending?”

“As far as I know, yes. He wanted to tour the Free Cities, like our uncles did when they turned sixteen, but our father refused permission. A tourney at Riverrun seemed a decent consolation prize. It’s his first long trip away from the Rock.” It was a shame Tyrion had not got to go to the Free Cities, but Jaime had been pleasantly surprised at the opportunity to see his brother nevertheless.

“He _has_ stayed close to home,” Lady Catelyn observed. “Your father did not even foster him with one of his bannermen?”

_My father has not even acknowledged that Tyrion is his heir._ “Tyrion would make a truly terrible squire,” he said, not wanting to speak of how his father hated Tyrion. That was a family matter. “And he would have been worse still as a page.” Tyrion would not have been able to resist commenting on every message he was asked to run. His mind ran faster than his legs, and his mouth ran faster than his mind. The thought amused Jaime, though such behaviour would probably have earned his brother several thick ears.

“I hope Riverrun is to his liking, then,” Lady Catelyn said.

“It was to mine, when I visited last.”

“I remember that. It was my uncle’s stories that were to your liking, ser, far more than Riverrun itself.”

“True,” Jaime admitted. “In my own defense, your uncle is an impressive warrior.”

Lady Catelyn laughed. She seemed much more cheerful now that she was away from Winterfell. Her fight with Lord Stark must have been wearing on her nerves as well. Since Oberyn Martell had left, it seemed like nobody had been happy. 

The trip to Riverrun might do them all good. _Cersei will be there_ , he reminded himself. That was the best thing of all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah…it'll probably be another month before the next one, too. IRL can be so demanding. Thank you all for the comments, the kudos, the anything at all. I hope I haven't disappointed!


	12. Before the Tourney

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime has a good time; Rhaenys, not so much. Cersei sizes up the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your eyes do not deceive you - it's an update. Warning for abusive relationships. Mind the tags, as always.

_Is there a good reason the gods have not seen fit to take Lord Walder from this life?_ Catelyn thought, as they all suffered through the obligatory meal at the Twins. She had insisted they time their crossing so they would only be there for luncheon, not overnight, and Ser Jaime had backed her up. _The time spent in the company of Freys is a steeper toll than any coin they could demand._

“Lady Stark,” Walder Frey croaked. “You’re the closest to a Tully we’ve seen in these halls for years.”

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Lord Walder,” she said. She was lying through her teeth, but he was probably used to visitors saying that with gritted teeth. “We are just passing through on our way to Riverrun.” He probably had guests say something like that a lot, too.

“And what have we here? A little princess and her knight in shining armour?”

Rhaenys looked at Catelyn for guidance, disconcerted by the rude inquiry.

“Lady Rhaenys of Dragonstone,” Catelyn said, stressing the _lady_. “And Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve met Ser Jaime.”

Ser Jaime bowed his head briefly. Rhaenys curtsied. Catelyn was glad she hadn’t brought her children inside for this. It meant some waiting for them, but it also gave them an excuse to be on their way as quickly as possible.

“A bit early for the tourney, aren’t you?” Frey asked.

“We are going to visit my father,” Catelyn said. “It would be my pleasure to pass on your regards when we reach Riverrun.” _Let us leave already. None of us care to be guests here._

When they finally extricated themselves, Rhaenys said, “He wasn’t very polite.”

“Walder Frey hasn’t been polite for about seventy years, if not seventy-five,” Catelyn said. There had been barbed comments about Lord Hoster’s regard for the Freys, yet more sniping comments about Lysa’s rushed marriage to Jon Arryn (it was near _ten years_ ago, by all the gods) followed in the same breath by a reminder that Edmure was not yet betrothed. Frey was nothing if not brazen. No doubt he had also planned to send some daughters and granddaughters to the tourney. “One must still keep their temper while dealing with him.”

“Lord Eddard said that the king might be worse,” Rhaenys said, a worried look on her face.

Catelyn sucked in a sharp breath. “Lord Stark knows King Robert well,” she said. From what her husband had told her of his childhood friend, it might well be possible that he would vent some temper on Rhaenys. She couldn’t say for sure; she didn’t know the king. Nor had she discussed the matter with her husband. It was an unpleasant possibility. “I think it best for you to be prepared.” Rhaenys looked dissatisfied, and Catelyn added, “I will be there to help.”

Rhaenys glanced over at Ser Jaime, already mounting his horse to ride a bit ahead of the carriage.

“Ser Jaime serves the king,” Catelyn reminded her in a low voice. “He is not your champion, you must remember this. He is the king’s, and he guards you at the king’s pleasure.”

“I know,” Rhaenys said. “I’ll try not to do anything to make the king angry.” 

“And I will do my best to ensure you spend as little time near him as possible,” Catelyn replied.

The remainder of their journey to Riverrun was very enjoyable. Catelyn had missed the warmth of the south. The summer had been long, and surely it would soon come to a close, but for now Catelyn was content to enjoy the sun and the heat as she travelled to her childhood home.

Out here, away from Winterfell, it was easier for her to forget how angry she still was with her husband, but the brief conversation with Rhaenys still bothered her. She had never met Robert Baratheon. If he was half the friend to Ned that Ned claimed he was to Robert, he would be no friend of hers as long as she should be at odds with her husband. Men so often sided with each other in a dispute with women.

That the subject of their dispute was Ned’s treason to Robert made the situation all the more ironic.

She would not be able to speak with her father about her problems with Eddard, either. Her husband had made a liar of her as well, and she bitterly resented it. _He considers his dead sister more important than his living children._ She could have used her father’s advice.

_What am I to do when my husband endangers my children? Which is my first duty? Him, or them?_

Months of thinking on it had yielded no answer she was happy with. Her children were her blood, and young, so terrifyingly vulnerable; she had to put them first. Over Eddard, even if it made them both miserable. Over Eddard’s nephew, too.

Truly, she understood why Ned would claim the boy. But his sister was dead and her son’s presence in Winterfell only put them all in very real danger. The boy would be safe fostered elsewhere. No promise could be worth their children’s wellbeing.

And while he maintained his lie, he kept his supposed bastard in her home. He would rather imply to the world that she was an inadequate wife to him than bend the slightest part of his word to a woman long dead.

Worst of all, while she kept her silence, none would see her as a woman wronged. None would know that what she did, she did for her children. Rather, she would be seen as bitter and frigid. There was no good outcome for her, unless by some miracle Ned relented. It made her so _angry_.

Away from Winterfell, at least, there were pleasanter things to think upon.

The road here ran along the Tumblestone for about an hour’s ride; it was pleasantly shady and had been one of Catelyn’s favourite spots to ride in her girlhood. The feeling of nostalgia was strong. Perhaps she and Lysa could find the time to ride along this road again. “There’s so much water,” Robb said. He had never seen a river this large before and his eyes were like to pop right out of his head. “Can we swim in it? Can we, Mother?” 

Sansa said nothing, but her eyes were very round too.

“No, we can’t swim in the river here,” Catelyn said. “It’s very important that you don’t, Robb. It’s not like the moat in Winterfell. The current can be very strong. See how fast the water’s flowing? There are often dangers underneath the surface, too, especially in the Red Fork. Promise me now that you won’t go swimming without permission.”

“I promise, Mother,” Robb said solemnly. Catelyn rather thought she would need to watch him like a hawk. Sansa, at least, she could trust not to jump into the Red Fork – or worse, the Tumblestone – at the first opportunity.

The walls of Riverrun slowly came into view over the trees. _At long last_. Catelyn loved her children, but travelling long distances with all four and her husband’s ward was trying. Arya in particular had been very cranky. She should not like to do this again until they were older and capable of either amusing themselves or tolerating the boredom better.

But even her exhaustion and fraying patience could not stand against her eagerness to see her father and brother again. Seven years, or near enough. It felt like the guardsmen could not lower that drawbridge any slower. It took all her self-control not to lean out the window like a girl, all to see her father just those few seconds sooner. Robb and Arya were not so restrained, practically bouncing in their seats. But she kept calm and waited for a footman to open the door for her before stepping out into the courtyard, her children and ward behind her.

Her father was waiting for her on the steps, Edmure beside him, both smiling. Her father had a little more grey in his hair than he had when she last saw him, nor did he stand quite as tall, but he was still her father. “My dearest daughter,” Hoster Tully said. “Welcome back to Riverrun.”

“Father,” she said. “It is so good to see you again.”

He held his arms out for an embrace. Catelyn gave him one gladly. “I’ve missed you, little Cat,” he said quietly. And for the first time in several weeks, Catelyn Tully was truly happy.

 

\---

 

Rhaenys tried to stay close to Ser Jaime as they all piled out of the carriage to greet Lady Catelyn’s family. _The Tullys_ , she remembered. _Lords of Riverrun and Lords Paramount of the Riverlands and Trident._ She had to be polite, and that meant she couldn’t look scared.

_Their sigil is a trout_ , she remembered. _Trout aren’t scary._

Lady Catelyn looked a lot like her father, she realised, seeing them together. He was red-haired and blue-eyed too, and so was Lady Catelyn’s brother Edmure, and so were Robb, Sansa, and Bran. Rhaenys felt like the odd one out. She wondered if Arya was old enough to notice.

“You’re too tall to be my grandson!” Lord Tully exclaimed to Robb at almost exactly the same time as Lady Catelyn said to her brother, “You’ve grown so tall!” That made Rhaenys giggle, and Ser Jaime roll his eyes.

After Lady Catelyn had introduced all her children to her father, it was finally Rhaenys’ turn. “My husband’s ward,” Lady Catelyn said. “Rhaenys Targaryen, Lady of Dragonstone.”

“A pleasure to meet you, my lord,” Rhaenys said, and managed a passable curtsey.

“Be welcome in Riverrun, Lady Targaryen,” Lord Tully said. “I hope you enjoy the tourney.”

“I’ve never been to one before,” Rhaenys said. “Not a southron tourney, anyway. But I like watching the jousting, so I’m sure I’ll have a good time.” That was half a lie – she wasn’t looking forward to the crowds at all. They would slowly filter in over the next few weeks until Riverrun was more crowded than Winterfell ever was. She did actually like the jousting, though.

“Will you be competing, ser?” Lord Hoster was asking Ser Jaime.

Ser Jaime smiled, but there was a bit of an edge to it. “If the king allows it, my lord.”

“If that’s your only concern, then you’ll be competing for certain,” Lord Tully said. “There’s hardly a man in the kingdoms who enjoys a tourney more than Robert Baratheon.” He turned away from Ser Jaime then, to speak to Lady Catelyn. “Well, Cat, I’m sure you want to freshen up, after such a long journey. I’ll have you all shown to your rooms.”

Rhaenys was taken to a little room not far from the nursery, where Sansa, Arya and Bran would all be staying, which suited her just fine. There were clean rushes on the floor and a small window overlooking Riverrun’s godswood. Even from above it looked less foreboding than Winterfell’s.

When the maids brought her hot water (which took longer than she expected, before she remembered that at Riverrun, they would have to heat the water first), she insisted on bathing and dressing herself. She didn’t know these people. 

Once she was done, she went exploring. At some point, Ser Jaime appeared again at her heels. More than anything, she wanted to go back to Winterfell. Now that they’d arrived at Riverrun, she wanted her own bedchamber, and Jon, and Lord Eddard. Especially Jon. It had been weeks since she’d seen him. Ser Jaime had told her time and again that there was no cause to fret, but she couldn’t help it. 

Lady Catelyn’s brother was there when she went to the nursery, peering curiously at a sleeping Bran. He didn’t seem to be hurting him, though. Rhaenys skirted around Edmure’s field of vision carefully and waited for him to notice her. He jumped when he did. “I was just looking,” he said defensively. “He’s my nephew.”

“I know.”

He scowled at her. There was a bit of red in his face. He must have been embarrassed to be caught mooning over a babe. Sometimes Robb and Jon got like that over playing with Sansa. Even though Edmure was ten years older it wasn’t that different. Boys, Rhaenys reflected, could be very silly sometimes. Men, really. Edmure, Lady Catelyn had said, was a man grown now. “Are you going to compete in the tourney?” she asked him. If he was a man, he might well be competing.

“It’s my name-day tourney,” he said, a bit haughtily. “Of course I’ll be competing.” He deflated a bit. “I’m not very good though. I’ll be unhorsed quickly. Your Ser Jaime will probably win.” 

“He’s very good,” Rhaenys agreed. Everyone at Winterfell said so, except Ser Jaime himself, who said he was better than that. (He wasn’t exactly modest, Ser Jaime.) She had seen him unhorsed a few times, though, and even Ser Jaime said that there were a few men in the kingdoms who stood a good chance of besting him in tourneys.

_Ser Barristan the Bold, for one_ , Ser Jaime had said. _Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He’s getting on in years, but last time I jousted against him his arms were still strong and his aim was true._ Then he had smiled. _But he wasn’t good enough to unhorse me that day._

He’d also told her once that her own father had been skilled at jousting, though he didn’t enter tourneys often and only ever won one. (“Which I was not there for,” he said, but cut himself off as if there was more to the story that he shouldn’t tell her.) Rhaenys had not pursued the details further.

“I hope you do better than you expect,” Rhaenys said, after a very awkward pause.

They were saved from further awkwardness by Sansa’s arrival, fresh from her own bath. “I want to see the godswood,” she said. “It looked pretty from the window.” With a shy glance at her uncle, she dragged Rhaenys from the room.

And Riverrun’s godswood _was_ pretty. Trees in the south bore leaves broader and brighter green than in the north. Rhaenys wondered why, and resolved to ask Maester Luwin when they returned to Winterfell. Sansa was clearly in love, with the sunshine and her new linen dress and the brightly coloured flowers that bloomed all along the path. The sinister atmosphere of Winterfell’s godswood was not present in the slightest in Riverrun.

The keep was built of red-brown stone, much the same colour as the banks of the Red Fork, and the red on the banners of the Tullys. Rhaenys wondered whether it looked at all like the Red Keep where she had been born. _If the Red Keep is like this, it won’t be so bad_ , she decided. It was peaceful and sunny here.

Or it would be peaceful here, until the tourney started. Then there would be crowds and shouting and men with weapons. The worst was yet to come.

 

\---

 

One of the good things about leaving Winterfell (and arriving at their destination) was a new group of men to practice with. Jaime hadn’t spent any great length of time at Riverrun before, none as a man grown. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d sparred against the Winterfell guardsmen, the Cassels, and Lord Stark himself. He was determined to enjoy the opportunity while it was available. 

He was, naturally, still the best. Proving it was still most satisfying. Almost as good as an actual battle. _Perhaps I should compete in the melee as well._ But he decided against it. Better to focus on winning the jousting and giving his sweet sister another crown of flowers.

Otherwise, it was much like being at Winterfell. He was still essentially a nursemaid, following a small girl around. The whole realm would see it, come the start of the tourney. It was just as well that his father wasn’t planning to attend. Some of the younger children of Riverrun followed him and Rhaenys around anyway, the boys whispering about Pyke and the girls whispering about the prince.

Tourneygoers slowly arrived at Riverrun, clusters of pavilions sprouting up in front of its land approach, and a few across the rivers, near the drawbridges. Rhaenys climbed the walls with Sansa every day to look at the heraldry. In truth, the younger girl had a better head for such stuff than her older brothers or her foster sister. Though she was only four, once she’d been told which house a sigil belonged to, she didn’t forget.

For his part, the only heraldry Jaime cared about was the royal standards telling of the king’s arrival, or the crimson banners that his brother would ride here under. Rhaenys and Sansa spotted Pipers and Mallisters, Blackwoods and Brackens, Rygers and Mootons and even Lady Whent’s banner, and Freys upon Freys upon Freys. There were many attendees from outside the Riverlands, too, and one day the girls even saw the Tyrell banner. Jaime soon learned that Mace Tyrell had not come, but his sons had – his crippled heir Willas, looking for a bride, the newly-knighted Garlan, looking for tourney fame, and Loras, the youngest, looking for someone to squire for.

Four days before the feast that would mark the start of the tourney, Sansa laughed and pointed at a new arrival. “Golden lion on crimson,” she said. “House Lannister!”

“Your brother’s here?” Rhaenys asked, leaning over the wall to get a better look. “Will we get to meet him?”

“I hope so,” Jaime said. Most evenings of late, Hoster Tully had invited one or another of his bannermen to dine with his family privately, but Tyrion was not likely to be a recipient of such an invitation. Nor was Jaime’s bookish brother the sort of companion that Edmure Tully, that dolt, would seek out. “You may have to wait until the tourney starts.”

Jaime had no plans to wait that long, though. Once he was sure Rhaenys was settled for the evening (glorious was his duty), safe within the walls of Riverrun, he’d go out to the camp and greet his brother himself. Though it was only morning, that hour couldn’t come soon enough.

The evening meal finally came to a close, and he saw Rhaenys to her bedchamber. She was safe here. There was no more to fear here than there was in Winterfell. 

It started to rain softly as Jaime walked through the camp, just hard enough to keep many would-be revellers inside their tents to do their drinking and fucking. Jaime ignored it all, keeping his eye on the Lannister banner he’d seen from the walls. When he got there, he nodded at the guardsman outside the tent – a man whose face he recognised from Casterly Rock but whose name he did not recall – and entered without fanfare.

In many ways his brother was not so different from other boys or young men. Out from under Lord Tywin’s eyes, Tyrion had taken the opportunity to drink as much as he liked. Jaime had done the exact same thing, the first time he’d attended a tourney without his father present. Not even the aftereffects could dampen his excitement. He’d been, what, twelve? Tyrion was sixteen. Perhaps he should be glad that he hadn’t walked in on his brother with a woman.

“Jaime!” his brother greeted him, only a little bit tipsy this early in the evening, and handling the wine better than Jaime would have at that age. “What took you so long?”

“I had to wait for the children to go to bed.”

Tyrion’s laugh was cut short as he realised that Jaime was absolutely serious. Then he poured Jaime a drink. “Your duties sound trying,” he said solemnly.

“You try riding from Winterfell to Riverrun with five children,” Jaime told him. “I was about ready to forsake my vows and ride back to the Rock by the time we got through the Neck. And do you know, I think Lady Stark might have come with me if I had.”

Tyrion snickered, but there was a dark look in his eyes. “Thank the gods that father hasn’t managed to find a lady wife for me yet, if that’s what heirs are like.” Jaime did not miss the emphasis he put on _lady_. Wine could bring unpleasant things to the surface just as easily as it could wash those things away for a time.

“It was the smallest girl who was the biggest problem,” Jaime replied, keeping his tone light. “If there is a less patient child out there I should not like to meet it. But enough about children. How do you like the lands beyond the west?”

“Mud here sticks to anything and everything, but quite a lot of it ended up on my boots,” Tyrion said. “Ghastly stuff. There is a surfeit of biting insects. And I am quickly growing to mislike tents, rain, and waiting out rain inside of tents. Yet I would much rather be here than home. I don’t suppose Robert Baratheon could be persuaded to hold a tourney somewhere more clement?”

“Robert Baratheon doesn’t need persuading to hold a tourney. There’ll be another within a moon’s turn of his return to King’s Landing, you mark my words.”

“Perhaps father will allow me to attend that hypothetical tourney as well,” Tyrion mused. He smiled crookedly up at Jaime. “He gave me charge of all the cisterns and privy pipes in Casterly Rock to mark my nameday. I am not eager to return home to take up my duties.”

It was a petty sort of slight, Jaime reflected, and Tyrion clearly knew how petty it was too. There was nothing to be done except endure it. “Are there any books on the subject to help you?”

“One,” Tyrion said, dissatisfied. Jaime was surprised there was even one. Who, in all the kingdoms, would ever want to write about privy pipes? “And a chapter in another book. They contradict each other almost point for point.”

But of course. “Better you than me, little brother,” Jaime said with utmost sincerity.

“Will you be competing, by the by?”

“I plan to,” Jaime said. He knew not to take a king’s permission for granted. “I’m here because Cersei asked to meet Lady Rhaenys. The opportunity to compete is…incidental.”

Tyrion snorted over the rim of his cup, accidentally inhaling some wine as he did so. “It’s you Cersei wants to see.” 

Jaime said nothing. Any denial he could make would ring hollow.

“No matter,” Tyrion continued, when he saw Jaime wasn’t going to answer. “There’s no harm to it, I suppose. Your Lady Rhaenys will suffer through the meeting with our sweet sister and otherwise have a wonderful time at the tourney. No doubt she’ll cheer you in the jousting.”

It was more likely that Rhaenys would sit there quietly petrified of all the knights, but Jaime didn’t think he should tell his brother that. Anyway, if Tyrion was in the stands, he would undoubtedly see for himself. He drained his cup. “I need to get back,” he said. “I’ll come again tomorrow evening.”

The very next day, however, the royal party arrived.

 

\---

 

Cersei had been right to dread this trip.

Robert had mounted her almost every night out of King’s Landing, for relative lack of any other women who caught his interest. When he came to her she did her best to get him drunk and keep him drunk, so he wouldn’t notice or care when she didn’t let him finish in her. She had to be careful not to allow that – obtaining moon tea in Riverrun would be a grave risk.

By day she spent most of her time in the wheelhouse with her sons. She had insisted on bringing Tommen. Jaime had not met his second son yet. And she feared what Jon Arryn might do if she left either of her children in the Red Keep without her. If she left Tommen, no doubt she’d return to find him surrounded by Arryn men.

It was a very great relief when the Red Fork finally came into view, signifying the end of the journey. The procession trundled through the tourney camp to cheers before crossing the drawbridge into the castle. Hoster Tully and his heir were waiting for them, along with a woman and two children who looked so much like the Tullys they could only be Starks. All five had the same vacant blue eyes as Lysa Arryn. Cersei ignored them for the moment and looked for her brother’s golden hair.

And there he was – there they _both_ were. Jaime, and the little Dornish bitch they wanted to wed to her Joff. She wasn’t so beautiful. She was a dark, bony little thing with big sullen eyes and an ill-concealed pout Cersei wanted to slap off her face. 

_I knew she wouldn’t be good enough for Joff_ , she thought as she went through the courtesies.

Robert had wasted no time in interrogating Catelyn Stark as to the wellbeing of her husband. After an embrace that might well have crushed the woman’s spine, he boomed, “And how is Ned, my lady?”

“He was well when we departed, your grace,” Lady Stark replied. Catelyn Tully’s own courtesies were clipped, and the look in her eyes was as icy as Cersei imagined Winterfell itself was. “I regret that he could not come himself, but I will be happy to pass on your regards to him.” 

“Maybe next time,” Robert said, before turning his attention to the two Stark children in turn. _He shows more interest in his friend’s children than he ever did in Joff or Tommen_ , Cersei thought resentfully.

As for Rhaenys Targaryen, Robert had heard Lady Stark introduce her, acknowledged the girl’s presence and Jaime’s with her, and moved on faster than politeness would dictate, almost ignoring her completely. The girl’s look of relief as the king moved away was truly pathetic. 

Joff himself was bored of these proceedings, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The Stark children and the Dornish girl had spotted him too, and were all trying to catch her son’s eyes. She had kept the screaming children of Robert’s courtiers away from Joff as best she could, so their grasping parents could not prevail upon him. In a few years Robert might start making noises about sending her son to serve as a page, and then a squire. She wouldn’t have that, either. 

But even that need faded as Jaime stood before her again. At least their separation had not been as lengthy as the last one. The white cloak suited him no better than it ever had. He took her hand and raised it to his lips very briefly, infinitely more her gallant knight than Robert ever could be.

He would come to her this evening, she knew it. They had seen each other last in Casterly Rock, after the tourney at Lannisport, that night that he almost certainly put Tommen in her. _Whenever we can_ , he had promised her. _Promised_. He had better come. _  
_

In the long term she wanted more than just "whenever", of course, but tonight would have to do for now. For the rest of the afternoon there was nothing to do but wait, and wait, and wait. Jaime vanished with his insipid little charge after the introductions were finished. He was there again at the feast prepared to welcome the royal party, as other members of the Kingsguard flanked her and Robert. She could only look (not too obviously) and not touch.

When at last the feast was over, she retreated to the rooms Hoster Tully had set aside for her use, and waited some more. Where _was_ Jaime? Had he been unable to sneak away? It had happened once or twice before. How vexing that it should be impossible tonight.

Cersei gave up and tried to sleep. Some short time later, she was woken by a kiss on her cheek. “Jaime,” she said, looking up at him with bleary eyes. Not how she wanted to look when he came to her. “What took you so long?”

“Tyrion,” he said. “I found him near unconscious after the feast, so I took him back to his pavilion.”

The irritation she felt at those words woke her up a bit more. Rather than pull him down towards her, she pushed him back and sat up herself. “You’re not his nursemaid,” she huffed, but Jaime only shrugged.

“He’s sixteen and he drank too much,” he said. “It didn’t take that long. I never had any intention of leaving you alone tonight.” He reached for her then, pressed his lips to hers, and Cersei soon forgot her annoyance.

“It can’t be long until daybreak,” she gasped as they broke apart, just far enough for Jaime to remove his shirt. “We don’t have much time.”

And all too soon, it seemed, her brother was picking up his clothing and getting ready to leave again. “I can’t bear it,” she said, watching him. He was so beautiful. And hers, all hers. “I don’t want you to go north again.”

“That’s not my decision, sweet sister,” he said. “It never has been. But we have a few weeks here together.”

“A few hours together, more like,” she retorted, thinking of all the times in the next few weeks they would be within sight of each other. They were not meant to be apart like this. “It’s not enough.” 

“It’s what we have.” He put his white cloak back on, the last item of his ensemble. “I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

The entire affair left Cersei rather disconsolate. She had spent so long dreaming of Jaime, all these long years in the Red Keep, and now he came late to her rooms and left early. Was that truly all she could expect?

The next morning she performed an unpleasant duty. She dressed in the third-finest gown she’d brought (the finest and second-finest were reserved for the tourney’s official opening and its end, respectively), of emerald silk and Myrish lace. It was a woman’s gown, and a queen’s, and she wanted the Lady of Dragonstone to see it. The girl was younger, yes, but she would never be more beautiful than Cersei.

Then Cersei sent a summons for the girl. If she had to meet her son’s betrothed – and she did, after having asked for her specially – she might as well get it over with. This meeting, and another, more public meeting at the tourney itself, should satisfy everyone. 

Rhaenys Targaryen arrived about half an hour later, Jaime at her heels. She looked up at Cersei’s twin for reassurance, and Jaime even smiled at her before closing the door behind her, leaving her and Cersei alone together.

The girl had hastily been scrubbed as pink as any Dornishwoman could be, and her hair dressed in a simple Northern style. She was wearing a gown of deep dark red trimmed with only the slightest touches of lace, and she had a broad ribbon around her throat rather than jewellery. It was unmistakeably a girl’s gown, only barely fine enough to wear before a queen. Though she had to be twelve, she showed no sign of developing a bosom, and her figure was still stick-narrow.

That was a real concern, Cersei thought as she gestured for the girl to rise. Elia of Dorne’s frailty and difficulty bearing children had been well known. If her daughter was the same, she could be set aside.

Well, it would not come to that for several years. She would just have to keep that in mind, if ever it was needed.

“Sit down, please,” Cersei said with the warmest smile she could muster, indicating a chair. The girl obliged, but perched on the edge of her seat as though ready to flee. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Rhaenys. My brother told me little about you, last we met.” Almost nothing, in fact, but Cersei hadn’t asked or even wanted to know.

“Oh,” the girl said. There was a stupid look on her face, and Cersei resisted the impulse to roll her eyes.

“Don’t feel bad, my sweet,” she said, faking a little laugh. “Jaime lives for swordfighting and jousting.” _And me. Always for me._ “Getting him to write a letter can be quite a trial.”

“He writes to Lord Tyrion sometimes.” The girl immediately leapt to Jaime’s defense. “He told me so.”

He did, did he? Jaime almost never wrote to her. Once or twice only in the years he’d been away. It was as she had just said – her brother was not one for letters. True, they could not write anything that mattered, but still… “Well, we’re not here to talk about Jaime.” She kept smiling. “I hope to get to know _you_ a little today.”

“It’s an honour, your grace.” Rhaenys Targaryen instantly dropped her gaze from Cersei’s and volunteered no information.

So she was stupid as well as sulky, then. “You have been raised in Winterfell, have you not?” Cersei prompted her.

“Yes,” the girl replied. “Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn are very kind to me.”

Cersei remembered Lord Stark from her own wedding as well as Stannis Baratheon’s. Lady Stark she had met just yesterday. A more glacial pair she could not imagine. _Perfectly suited_ , she thought. “That’s good,” she said. “I am pleased to hear you are not unhappy with the arrangement.”

She asked a series of questions over the next hour, receiving very little in the way of reply. Lady Targaryen had been educated, she said, in the feminine arts by a septa, in household management by Lady Stark, and a little bit of history from Winterfell’s maester. It was a pity that none of them had taught the girl the art of pleasant conversation. She liked to draw. She had never attended a tourney as big as this before and was very excited. _Dull. Asinine._ _Robert and Jon Arryn want Joff to wed_ this _?_

Finally Cersei could take no more and sent the girl back to whatever she had been doing beforehand, with a promise that they would talk again at the tourney. “Perhaps we shall watch my brother joust together,” she said. It felt like she had been smiling for an eternity. Her face was about to crack at the edges, she was sure. 

“I would like that very much, your grace,” the little liar said. “Thank you for your time.” With a graceless curtsey, she retreated.

Cersei watched her go, feeling entirely relieved. That girl couldn’t take anything from her even if she tried. Not Jaime, not Joff, not the crown.

 

\---

 

It had been a very long time since Jaime had stood guard with another member of the Kingsguard. The last time, it had been…Oswell Whent, he thought. It might have been Lewyn Martell. One of the two. Both were a far cry indeed from Boros Blount. Standing at attention in front of the queen’s chambers was probably the extent of his abilities.

Still, there was something slightly reassuring about having another man in a white cloak there. He felt more like a brother of the Kingsguard. There was even a king in the same castle.

He wondered how Cersei and Rhaenys were getting along. Somehow he couldn’t see them warming to each other, which was a shame.

After about an hour, Rhaenys emerged from his sister’s rooms, a small frown on her face. “I promised Lady Catelyn I’d tell her what happened,” she said to him, before he could ask. “She said she’d be walking in the godswood.” She set off in that direction without even a glance at Blount, and Jaime had no choice but to follow her.

Having to follow soured him on having his brothers in white here. The Kingsguard guarded the king. Jaime was the only one trailing around after a girl.

Lady Catelyn was in the godswood, as she had apparently told Rhaenys she would be. Riverrun agreed with her, and she smiled warmly when she saw her husband’s ward. “Did it go well?” she asked.

“I don’t think so,” Rhaenys said, which didn’t surprise Jaime. There were very few people whose company Cersei willingly tolerated. “She asked a lot of questions.” 

“That’s not so surprising,” Lady Catelyn said. “You are to wed her son. When the time comes for Robb to wed I imagine I shall ask a great many questions of his bride-to-be myself. It is even more important for Queen Cersei, as you will be queen after her.”

“I still don’t think she liked me,” Rhaenys said.

Lady Catelyn looked over at Jaime for a second, perhaps wondering if anything she could say would offend him. “Then you will have to persist, if you want the queen’s friendship,” she said. “Has she asked to see you a second time?”

“When the tourney starts,” Rhaenys replied. “She said I could sit with her to watch Ser Jaime joust.”

“You will be competing then, Ser Jaime?” Lady Catelyn asked him.

“King Robert has not said otherwise,” Jaime told her. “So yes, I will.”

“I wish you good fortune, ser. If my brother should be defeated, I will throw my support to you.”

Jaime smiled and bowed, knowing that Edmure Tully would almost certainly be defeated in short order. “I’m flattered, Lady Stark, but surely there are some of your father’s men who could use your support more.”

“Not at all, Ser Jaime,” Lady Catelyn said. “I’ve always heard it said that overconfidence can unhorse even the best joust.”

“You wound me, my lady,” Jaime protested, mock-seriously. “Many more of your cruel words and I will not be fit to compete after all.”

Catelyn Stark smiled and turned her attention back to Rhaenys. “Are you prepared for the feast tomorrow night?”

“I think so,” Rhaenys said, though she sounded anything but.

Jaime wasn’t much looking forward to it himself. Lord Stark had never held a tourney so large while Jaime had been at Winterfell, and there had never been so many people or so many ways that guarding someone could go wrong. And Cersei would be there, too. If they were lucky he would be able to dance with her once at least, but seeing her at Robert’s side would be unpleasant as it always was.

They parted ways with Lady Catelyn after that, as Rhaenys went to ensure her arms didn’t stick too far out of her best gown’s sleeves. She was growing like a weed now, and Jaime had long since learned to tolerate standing guard over fittings.

To his great regret, he could not manage to sneak away to see Cersei that evening, even though he knew Robert was whoring and wenching his way around the castle. All of Riverrun was buzzing in preparation, servants passing through the halls even in the dead of night. The chance that they would be discovered was, for the moment, too high. 

Nor did he see her for the next day. Not until the feast, and when he saw her at last, she was radiant in the scarlet and gold of their house. Jaime had always liked her best in nothing at all, but even clothed there was no woman here who could match her beauty. She caught his eyes over the crowd, for she was at the high table while he was standing near Rhaenys, and it seemed to him that she was as impatient as he was.

When the dancing began, he didn’t dare ask a dance with his sister immediately. She had duties he could not take her away from. Instead, he watched while she danced with Robert and then with Hoster Tully. Lady Catelyn danced first with her father, then with the king, then with her brother. Even Rhaenys joined in once Garlan Tyrell asked for the honour, followed by a string of young knights and a few bold squires.

He lost count of the men Cersei partnered, trying as he was to watch her while also keeping an eye on Rhaenys’ pale yellow skirts in the crowd. By now sweat would be glistening on Cersei’s skin to match the shine of her hair –

That broke his resolve to stay back.

As he approached the dancing, however, he saw that Cersei was again engaged, partnered with a man half a head shorter than her and whose heraldry he did not recognise. Before he could move to interrupt, a familiar voice stopped him. “May I trouble you for a dance, Ser Jaime?” Lady Catelyn asked him. “It’s very forward of me, I know, but I seem to have run short of partners.”

He glanced over at Cersei, who was feigning enjoyment and spinning rapidly away from her diminutive partner. Too late to cut in now. “Why not?” he replied, and held out his hand. “Though I confess my surprise that you should be without a partner.” Wed for nigh on eight years and the mother of four, Lady Stark was nevertheless still fair to look upon. And, Jaime knew from watching her this evening and before at Winterfell, still an energetic and capable dancer. 

“A lady without her husband present must choose dancing partners carefully,” Lady Catelyn replied primly as they joined in the pattern. “Old men and white cloaks are safest.”

The conversation was cut short as they were obliged to wind their separate ways through rows of fellow dancers – Jaime brushed against Cersei in the process, but did not meet her eyes – but when they were brought together again, Lady Catelyn spoke again. “How fares Rhaenys?”

“Well enough, for the nonce,” he replied. “Garlan Tyrell asked her for a dance, and she’s not wanted for partners since. I suspect she’ll want to leave soon, though.” She hadn’t panicked at the sight of the crowded hall, but neither had she relaxed. Dancing was tiring enough as it was.

“She’s done her duty,” Lady Catelyn agreed. “If she wants to leave, tell her she can. I remember how tired I was at the end of my first tourney feast. We cannot have her falling asleep in the stands tomorrow.”

Jaime couldn’t imagine anyone doing anything of the sort. He said so, as once again the dance took him away from Lady Catelyn.

Through sheer good fortune, Cersei was one of the women the pattern took him to this time, and she looked just as he’d expected. “May I have the next dance?” he asked, in the brief window of time available to him.

“You may,” Cersei said, and then she was gone again.

“You’d be surprised,” Lady Catelyn said, when she was back on his arm for the final part of the dance, as if they had never been interrupted at all. Not long now until he was dancing with his sister. “I’ve never found jousting that interesting. My father was terribly ashamed of my behaviour.”

That made Jaime laugh, and he was smiling as the dance ended and he walked over to Cersei. “Your grace,” he said, and bowed deeply. “You promised me a dance.”

“Ser Jaime.” She offered him her hand, and together they found a place on the floor.

As the next dance began, it seemed she was holding herself very stiffly against him. He knew Cersei danced better than that. “Is anything wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing at all, ser,” she said. They danced the set in silence after that, Jaime thoroughly confused as to Cersei’s apparent bad mood. When they were done, Cersei returned to the high table without so much as a “thank you.”

Jaime didn’t feel like dancing any more after that. He too returned to the tables, where Rhaenys had given up on dancing as well. Unlike Cersei, though, Rhaenys had given up through sheer exhaustion. The poor girl was flushed and breathing hard, unused to the exertion. “I think I want to leave, Ser Jaime,” she said. “Is that all right?”

“You don’t need my permission,” he told her. “But Lady Catelyn said you may.”

“Good,” she said. “I didn’t think so many men would want to dance with me.”

“You’ll be queen one day, remember? Did you see how many men wanted to dance with my sister?”

Rhaenys frowned. “Oh dear.”

“You had better keep up with your dancing practice, my lady,” Jaime said. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Garlan Tyrell was very kind,” she said, as Jaime offered her his arm. She was moving very slowly now, and Jaime suspected her legs were cramping up. “And Lord Renly is a very good dancer too. I wanted to dance with Edmure Tully, but he said no...”

As they made their way to the exit, Jaime pretended he didn’t realise Cersei was staring daggers at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll spare you the tale of WOE (Weekend-Obliterating Events) that delayed this chapter so long and instead just thank everyone for their patience, and also for their feedback. It means a lot, all.


	13. A Test of Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lannisters keep their promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still here, still writing. There's not a section in this chapter that I didn't originally write from a different POV, so that's what caused the delay, if you're wondering. In terms of content notes, this chapter contains discussion of miscarriage and stillbirth.

Her legs hurt. Back at Winterfell, dancing practice usually ended when she got too tired. Her septa and Lady Catelyn had both said things about “dancing through the night” but Rhaenys hadn’t connected that to the reality of _dancing all night_. She could feel where blisters were forming on her feet, thanks to her new slippers.

Ser Jaime was smirking at her. He had been, all the way from the hall. He thought it was _funny_. But he was allowing her to lean on his arm while she tried not to hobble too obviously.

She was starting to get very cold. Her dress was thin, the hall had been very warm, and now that she was away from all that she could feel the cool of the evening. By the time she reached Robb’s room she was shivering. “You should retire, my lady,” Ser Jaime said.

“I promised to at least visit after the feast,” Rhaenys said. Lady Catelyn had deemed him too young for this particular occasion, and if Robb was not attending, there was no question of Sansa going either. Neither were particularly pleased with the arrangement, and so Rhaenys had said she’d tell them all about it.

“It’s quite late,” Ser Jaime said.

“I promised,” Rhaenys repeated. Sansa would definitely be asleep by now, but Robb might not be. She missed Jon more than ever, and would not have hesitated to wake him in order to talk. But Jon was back in Winterfell. She hoped Theon wasn’t being _too_ much of an ass.

Robb stirred as she opened the door. “Rhaenys?” He’d stayed awake then, though in the dim candlelight she could see he looked sleepy.

“It wasn’t that fun,” she told him. “Sansa would have liked it better, probably.”

“Jousting t’morrow,” Robb mumbled in reply.

Rhaenys just said “Go to sleep, Robb,” and left. She closed the door behind her and looked up at Ser Jaime, who had an expression on his face that said quite clearly _that couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?_ They checked on the younger children (all there, and all asleep) before Rhaenys went to her own bed.

Sleep was longer in coming than she’d thought. Though she was physically exhausted, it seemed her mind was still wide awake. She’d spent every dance telling herself that none of her partners would suddenly attack her, and now she was having trouble keeping those thoughts from her mind.

And there was the company to consider. She couldn’t just sit with Lady Catelyn and Robb all tournament; she had to spend at least a little time with the royal family. The king was one of the biggest men she had ever seen, tall and broad. Even his voice was big. She had been very glad when he’d decided to ignore her.

Rhaenys had wanted to like the queen. She was Ser Jaime’s sister, and so she had assumed that Queen Cersei would be…well, more like Ser Jaime, or as much like Ser Jaime as a queen could be. She certainly _looked_ like Ser Jaime. Rhaenys thought the queen was the most beautiful woman she had ever met. Standing in front of Queen Cersei, Rhaenys was very aware of her thin face, the fact that her chest was still completely flat, and that her ankles always seemed to poke out from the hem of her skirts. Lady Catelyn said she would grow out of all those things within a few years, but the queen had looked Rhaenys over head to toe yesterday and, she couldn’t help but think, found her wanting. She had smiled with her mouth, but her eyes had been full of disdain.

She had seen Prince Joffrey, too, just the once. He was too young for her to imagine as a man grown. He was too young for her to imagine as her husband, or a king of any sort. _One day he’ll put a cloak of yellow and black on my shoulders._ In her mind, when she tried to picture the scene, he was just a blond figure without a face. She couldn’t even imagine Prince Joffrey as growing tall. _I don’t even know him._

At some point, still worrying about the family she was to marry into, she dropped off to sleep. _I wish I could stay at Winterfell,_ was the last thing she remembered from that evening.

It was a maid who woke her. Rhaenys dressed hurriedly and went to break her fast. Ser Jaime was nowhere to be seen, probably off entering the lists. She took a deep breath and went ahead anyway. She couldn’t hide behind his cloak forever. For a second she wanted to turn away and go back to her rooms, but she saw Lady Catelyn at the table, speaking to her father, and Robb waved at her from his place next to his mother. _It’s not as crowded as the feast_ , she told herself, and went to sit with Robb and Sansa.

After breakfast, Rhaenys took Sansa’s hand as they all made their way to the stands. She wasn’t welcome to sit with the royal family today, thank all the Seven. “Not so tight,” Sansa said. “That hurts.”

Rhaenys realised she was hanging on too hard, and with an effort, released her grip. She’d have to be more careful. Sansa was only little.

The stands were buzzing with activity as they found seats, again near Hoster Tully (though not Edmure, who’d gone off to prepare). Rhaenys had never seen so many people in one place, not even at the feast. Ser Jaime was still nowhere to be seen. Now her chest felt tight and her head spun.

She had to take deep breaths. She couldn’t panic here, in front of what felt like half the realm, not to mention her betrothed, the king, and the queen. She just had to stay calm and do her best to act like Lady Catelyn. Eventually Ser Jaime would be back.

There he was, over there – the white cloak of the Kingsguard was more distinctive in a crowd than she’d thought it would be, the plain bright white standing out amongst all the colours and patterns. Ser Jaime wasn’t the only member of the Kingsguard present, of course. All seven were here, the first time these seven had gathered, and the first time the seven had been in one place since Aerys’ reign.

And, Rhaenys realised, the person he was talking to must be his brother. Ser Jaime had once said his brother was a dwarf, and surely there could only be one such man wearing the Lannister lion. He was shorter than Rhaenys herself was by some ways, and a very ugly man indeed. He and his brother could hardly look less alike.

She still wanted to meet Lord Tyrion for herself, of course, far more than she’d wanted to meet the queen. For now, she’d sit tight, and wait until this was over.

 

\---

 

Tyrion knew he was a very small man, but it had been years since he’d felt it this acutely. At Casterly Rock and in Lannisport, a Lannister was a Lannister, even one half-grown in more than one sense of the term. Here at Riverrun, he was one more highborn visitor worth _maybe_ the bare minimum of courtesy, if that, and it was only his lord father’s name that made him worth that much.

His sixteenth nameday had been and gone, and yet Lord Tywin had not named him heir. He should have done so. By law and custom, with Jaime in the Kingsguard, Tyrion should have been named heir.

Yet he hadn’t been, and Tyrion didn’t dare ask. Nor did he want to bring it up with Jaime. His brother might well confront their father about the matter, and Tyrion did _not_ want to deal with the retribution that might ensue.

In spite of all that, it was good to be away from home, and good to see his brother again. Cersei he could take or leave, with a preference to leave. It was a shame he’d only seen Jaime while drunk – perhaps he should sober up a bit?

He decided against it. Wine had seen him well through these last few years, fogging his memory of his nightmares and his memory of other things as well.

Head aching from last night’s celebrating, Tyrion made his way to a place in the stands. It was far too grand an event for him to spend it feeling sorry for himself. The great and the good were all here, and Tyrion could admit to himself that he was interested. King Robert didn’t seem to change but around the middle, but Robert’s youngest brother hadn’t been seen much outside the Stormlands. Cersei only had eyes for Jaime.

Hoster Tully and his offspring were sitting close together; Lord Tully looked well pleased to be surrounded with his children and grandchildren alike. Hoster Tully’s heir looked well pleased to be the centre of so much attention; Hoster’s daughters Lady Stark and Lady Arryn Tyrion couldn’t keep straight in his head, but only one was smiling. The Dornish girl suffering in the awkward stage between girl and woman, she had to be Lady Rhaenys, his royal nephew’s betrothed. If she were fortunate, she’d grow into her rather sharp face eventually.

Tyrion had taken particular note of Willas Tyrell with his crippled leg; it clearly pained and frustrated him no matter how he smiled. _Is it harder to become a cripple or be born one?_ Tyrion wondered. _Either way, we must sit with the women and watch our whole brothers compete with the other men._ Just thinking that made him want to find more wine.

Around him, the men and some of the ladies called out wagers. This early in the tourney, the hedge knights and the squires were riding, thinning out the ranks before the real champions took the field. Renly Baratheon competed for the first time, and though he was quickly unhorsed, his good looks and toothy smile earned him cheers aplenty.

He lost a dragon on one young knight, won it back twice over on the next tilt, and went to find Jaime again. Hopefully Cersei wasn't monopolising him.

His brother was walking back in the direction of the stands, looking splendid in his white armour. No jousting for him today either, though his sweat-damp hair revealed that he’d been practicing recently. “Going somewhere?” Tyrion asked.

Jaime startled a bit – he hadn’t spotted Tyrion, which admittedly was an easy thing to do in a crowd. “I have my work,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the Tully contingent and its cluster of redheads.

Not far away, he saw Cersei staring at them both. She knew how to glare daggers, Cersei did, and she had always hated it when Jaime paid him any attention.

“Would you mind terribly if I came with you?”

“You’re welcome to throw yourself in front of any assassins who may appear,” Jaime said. “Isn’t the tourney exciting enough for you already?”

Tyrion smiled. “It would hardly be appropriate for me to attend a Tully tourney without speaking to any Tullys.” In truth he also wanted an excuse to see his brother about his _childminding_. It seemed such an incongruous thing for Jaime to do, Tyrion couldn’t help but be interested. 

Jaime led him before Lord Tully and his family and introduced him. Tyrion saw the disgust at his appearance in the eyes of Edmure Tully and one of his sisters, but Hoster Tully and the other once-Tully daughter were far more restrained. _Stark or Arryn?_ That question was quickly answered when Jaime smiled at the more schooled sister and asked, “Lady Stark, permission to introduce my brother to your children?”

The two – Stark, it had to be – children, Tyrion couldn’t help but notice, were also staring at him, though less in disgust than fascination. _Old enough not to mistake me for a fellow child, young enough not to look at me with scorn._ Not to mention they had taken their cue from their courteous mother. And on the other side of young Robb Stark, Lady Rhaenys was peering at him carefully while trying not to be too obvious about it.

“Ser Jaime has told me about you,” she said politely when Jaime introduced them. _Ah, but did he tell you how ugly I am?_ For a girl so young, her eyes were very suspicious.

“My brother has told me about _you_ ,” he replied. “So it seems we are not starting from scratch, unless he’s been lying to us both for years.” Jaime hadn’t told him much. Tyrion treasured the letters Jaime sent him, yes, but more for the fact that his brother would pick up a quill for his sake than for the quality of his prose.

“Is this your first big tourney, too?”

Tyrion nodded, trying not to think of what had happened at the last one. “I somehow contrived to miss the majority of both tourneys in Lannisport either side of the Greyjoys’ little rebellion.” Their father had been trying to bribe Jaime back, the first time, and the second had been Robert’s order for a victory celebration. Either tourney could have been supported easily, but both in such quick succession had been enough to put a bit of a strain on even the deep coffers of Casterly Rock. 

Tyrion had had other _things_ on his mind at the time, but even he remembered how Lord Tywin had raged at having to bear the expense of a second tourney, with so many of the Lannisport merchant ships still at the bottom of the harbour and a fleet to rebuild. Between the throngs of adults and Lord Tywin’s bad temper, Tyrion had been happy enough to avoid those occasions. “I have never been overfond of crowds.”

“There are so many people here,” the girl said quietly, her eyes glazing over slightly as she looked over at the knights waiting for their turn in the lists. “So many.” 

She was scared, Tyrion realised. He glanced up at Jaime, who wasn’t paying attention to them. Tyrion followed his gaze and found Cersei again. No help was forthcoming from that quarter. “As this is your first tourney,” Tyrion said, trying to change the topic, “do you care to make your first wager with me?”

“I won’t bet against Ser Jaime,” Lady Rhaenys said.

Another glance at Jaime, now paying attention, confirmed that her suspicious tone was a better sign than glassy eyes. “Neither will I,” he went on, keeping his voice light. “Perhaps we should bet on who his opponents will be?” 

He allowed her to put her silver on Ser Barristan to ride against Jaime in the finals, and then they sat back to watch the rest of the day’s jousting, and to further observe the people around him. Occasionally Lady Rhaenys or Robb Stark would turn to ask Jaime a question. As the day wore on they asked Tyrion his opinion more often too, and without a single disdainful glance at his deformities. Children, Tyrion decided, were not too unpleasant after all.

Tyrion watched, and drank, and kept an eye on his brother, who kept sneaking glances at their sister.

 

\---

 

Jousting had never been Catelyn’s favourite diversion, and two days of watching men ride towards each other with long sticks in hand was about all she could stand of it. On the third day, she prevailed upon Lysa to go riding with her for an afternoon, leaving her children in the care of Riverrun’s new septa.

Besides that, it had been a very long time since she’d seen Lysa, and longer still since they’d spoken alone. In those weeks before Lysa had left for King’s Landing and her place at Jon Arryn’s side, Catelyn feared she’d been rather distracted by Robb’s sudden presence in her life. Moons of expecting his arrival hadn’t compared to actually holding her son in her arms. 

“It’s been a long time since we’ve done this,” Catelyn said as they rode away from Riverrun and the tourney grounds, taking note of Lysa’s relieved expression.

“Are you sure we won’t be missed?” Lysa asked. Some things, it seemed, never changed all that much.

“Some of the champions are going to be on the field today,” Catelyn said. “No one except Father will care if we’re gone.” And her children, but it would be good for them to attend without her for a few hours. If they were foolish enough to misbehave, there would still be consequences.

They rode out for near an hour, by Catelyn’s favourite path, away from the noise and the crowds. They stopped in another favourite place, where the best plum trees within a day’s ride grew. Other travellers had stripped the trees bare, but even so, it was a comfort just to be there, in such a familiar place. They dismounted and sat on the grass, enjoying the peace and quiet. Or, Catelyn at least was enjoying the peace and quiet.

“How have you fared in King’s Landing?” Catelyn asked, knowing that they were far away from anyone who might casually overhear. Her sister had been very withdrawn thus far, and she had never confided in their father easily. She was concerned. When they were children, Lysa had always craved company.

Lysa didn’t answer for a while. “I don’t like it,” she said at last. “King’s Landing always smells like a sewer. That fat drunken king has parties almost every week and I have to attend all of them while the other ladies laugh at me behind their hands. And Jon – Lord Arryn…he is cool to me, but not so unkind, and...”

And sure enough, Lysa’s face, when Catelyn looked, was the picture of misery.

“Lysa?”

“Four miscarriages,” she said. “And last year – last year – my babe, he…” She took a deep breath, but it didn’t seem to help. “My babe was stillborn.”

“Oh, Lysa. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not fair,” Lysa said, and Catelyn saw her sister’s misery become tears. “It’s not fair. You have four, and I have none.”

There was nothing Catelyn could say to that. She’d never had the misfortune of miscarrying, much less a stillbirth. She had feared it, when she bore Arya in Ned’s absence, and panicked during Bran’s difficult birth, but it had turned out all right in the end. She had not shared her mother’s fate.

If she and Eddard continued as they were, she never would. Not that she wanted to die in childbed, but the thought that she might not have another child, that was more than passing strange. She was not yet thirty.

But as her sister had said, she had four children to comfort her in her loneliness. She could not possibly understand Lysa's pain. So Catelyn remained silent and let Lysa weep as she needed. How long had it been since Lysa had felt free to do so? How many tears had she wept into her pillows alone in the Red Keep?

“I am so sorry, Lysa,” Catelyn said again when her sister had calmed somewhat. “I wish that I lived closer. Is there truly nobody in whom you can confide there?”

That brought a smile to Lysa’s face at last. “Jon gave Petyr a post in the city a few moons ago. He’s still a good friend.”

“Petyr?” His name brought up mixed feelings. She had never regretted burning his last letter to her, all those years ago. But before that absurd duel with Brandon, he had been like a brother to her. Perhaps he could still be a brother to Lysa. “I’m glad he remembers you.”

Lysa’s eyes were still red, but she changed the topic and asked, “Are you happy with Lord Eddard? Is he kind to you?”

Instantly, all Catelyn’s anger at her husband resurfaced. _Kind?_ Once she would have said _yes_ in a heartbeat. _Happy?_ Yes, she had been. Just a few months ago. Not anymore.

“He keeps his bastard in Winterfell,” Catelyn said, tone short. Or at least he kept a boy he would rather have the world believe was his bastard in Winterfell. “Along with my sons and daughters. In his quest for his own honour, he thinks rather little of mine.”

“In Winterfell?” Lysa was clearly shocked and appalled.

“My children call him brother.” Which Jon Snow was not. “He shares his lessons with Robb.” Like a Lord Paramount’s heir, the closest to a princely education that Eddard could provide for his nephew.

Of course she couldn’t tell Lysa the truth, but her frustration boiled over. It was easier to tell her sister than her father. Lysa, who was so clearly unhappy in her marriage to Jon Arryn, would no doubt understand her better. “There is but a moon’s turn between Robb’s nameday and the bastard’s. He imperils my children to a bastard’s claim – “ _worse_ , but Catelyn was a woman of her word, “ – for the sake of a woman he will neither name nor speak of.”

Not to anyone but her, anyway, and she doubted that Eddard would speak of his sister to her again.

“It’s all right, though,” Catelyn hastened to reassure her sister. “Otherwise, he treats me kindly, even though we have recently … come across some irreconcilable differences. It’s little enough compared to what you have suffered.“

Lysa sniffed again, still teary. “It really isn’t fair, is it, Cat?”

“No, it isn’t.” There was nothing they could do about it, though. That was a woman’s lot in life. “But we have to do our duty.” The alternatives were so much worse, and Jon Snow was in Winterfell to remind both her and Eddard of that. “You’ll have a child one day, I’m sure of it.” 

“I want one so much,” Lysa said. “A sweet little boy. I hope he has red hair, like us. Maybe he can be friends with your Bran.”

“I hope so.” Even as Catelyn said it, she knew it wouldn’t happen, as they had planned when they were young women newly wed. It truly sounded to her as though Lysa was barren. Even if she wasn’t, they lived too far from each other for their sons to develop any sort of close friendship – it would be their _other_ cousin, despite her best efforts, whom her children would know and love.

And she had effectively lost her husband. She wasn’t a little girl anymore, and didn’t hold on to naïve dreams.

 

\---

 

It seemed to take forever, but finally Jaime was due to joust. Cersei had waited long enough. She only wished that he would use his rightful colours. At least he was using a horse from their father’s stables.

Oh, that was right. She would have to invite Lady Targaryen to her side soon. _Ugh._ She could do without a little girl simpering over _her_ twin. But she had to do it, and so she directed a servant to fetch the girl to her directly. 

“Your grace,” the girl said, when she arrived at Cersei’s side. She curtsied deeply, but Cersei saw her wobble on her feet. _Clumsy? Or just scared?_

“Who’s this?” Joff asked, when he saw her.

“This is Lady Rhaenys Targaryen,” Cersei explained to her son, as the girl curtsied again, not quite as deeply. “She’s your betrothed, my sweet.”

“What’s betrothed?”

“It means that one day she will be your lady wife,” Cersei said. “When you are king, she will be your queen.”

That made Joff scowl. “I want mama to be queen,” he told his wife-to-be.

Once again, he’d gone back to calling her _mama_. Cersei glanced over at Robert, who wasn’t paying them the slightest attention, since there was jousting going on. “Mother, Joff,” she reminded him, just in case.

“I want Mother to be queen,” Joff corrected himself, before glaring at Lady Targaryen. “So you can’t be.”

The girl looked uncertain. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Prince Joffrey,” she said at last. “I – I don’t intend to take Queen Cersei’s place.”

“I asked her here to watch your Uncle Jaime joust,” Cersei said. 

The girl's words and the promise of jousting pleased Joff well enough, as he started to smile. “All right,” he said. “She can stay.”

Unfortunately, their conversation had finally attracted Robert’s attention. “What’s all this?” he said. Yet again Lady Targaryen curtsied, deepest of all for Robert. She almost fell over, but stayed on her feet and didn’t move, waiting for permission even to raise her head. “Is that the dragonspawn girl?”

“I invited her here to watch my brother joust,” Cersei explained again. It would be nice if Robert had an attention span greater than that of the average horsefly, but she had long since given up hope of that. Defending Lady Targaryen’s presence in the box also outraged her. _I don’t want her here any more than you do._

“Look me in the eye, damn you, girl,” Robert said to Lady Targaryen. Clearly terrified now, the girl complied. _What do you have to be afraid of?_ Cersei thought bitterly. _You’ll never have to bed him._ But Robert had let out a small sigh of relief. “Well, you don’t look like your raper of a father, at least.” 

“Thank you, your grace,” her small voice said.

Robert turned away from her, back to where the jousters were waiting at their marks. Jaime dipped his lance in their direction, though they could not see his expression behind his helm. Then he wheeled around towards his opponent and, on the mark, rode at a tremendous gallop towards him.

Cersei watched with pleasure as whatever Frey her brother was riding against toppled backwards off his horse after a solid blow to the shield. Beside her, the Targaryen girl stayed silent, fists clenched. She didn’t even know how to cheer properly. “You don’t have to fear for him,” Cersei said.

“I don’t, truly I don’t.” She looked up at Cersei. “He told me what to look for. He said, steady lance, good seat, true aim. I know Ser Jaime is very good, your grace.”

“Do you?” Cersei had never learned much about jousting. Her brother was the best, and that was what mattered. “You show it oddly.”

“I’m sorry, your grace. I’m not used to tourneys so large as this.”

“If you would be queen, you had better grow used to them.”

The girl made an effort to unclench her fists and relax a little in her seat, but though her shoulders slumped her back remained rigid. Cersei sighed. How anyone could care for such a timid little thing was beyond her.

She said as much when she was alone with Jaime that evening, after they had finished fucking. She intended to have him in her as much as possible while she could, to hold the memory of him close in anticipation of other, far more unwelcome, nights with her _lord husband._

If everything went well, she would have Jaime back. 

“She’s not bold, I’ll give you that,” Jaime said. “She has her mother’s courage, though, and Lady Stark has done her best to teach Rhaenys to be strong.”

Cersei scoffed at that. “She trembled the whole time she sat with me. Robert had to tell her to look at him. I thought she’d weep if you looked unsteady on your horse. Strength indeed.”

Jaime just smiled. “Fortunately for her, I’m never unsteady on my mount.”

He could be so _stupid_ , her brother. A golden fool. “You think a lot of Lady Stark, it seems,” she said, changing the topic in her irritation with him. “Is it her you’d rather be fucking, then?” She’d seen them dancing. Catelyn Stark had approached Jaime, even. Then, not only had Jaime accepted, but he’d enjoyed himself. Cersei had certainly noticed _that_.

“Well, I’d sooner fuck her than Lysa Arryn, you're right,” Jaime replied. “I can hardly be alone in that opinion, but that doesn't mean I'd bed either of them of my own will. I am faithful to you, and Lady Stark is faithful to her husband. The arrangement suits us both well.”

“So you say.”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “Because it’s true. My duties have required me to spend time with Lady Stark. We know each other fairly well by now, and I danced with her because she enjoys dancing. I have no more interest in bedding her than I did on the day we met. None at all. Why would I even want her, when I have you?”

“Prove it, then,” Cersei said. Jaime reached for her, but she swatted his hands away. “No. Not like that. Come back to King’s Landing with me. That’s how you can prove it.”

“Cersei…” he groaned. “You know that decision isn’t mine to make. We’ve had this discussion before.”

“I can persuade Robert.”

“You’ve been saying that for years.”

“This time I’ll succeed. It’s Jon Arryn who’s been keeping us apart, him and Selmy and Stark. Jon Arryn’s back in King’s Landing, he won’t know until it’s too late. Ned Stark is even further away. Selmy won’t protest, not to Robert.”

Jaime hesitated.

“All you have to do is say yes,” Cersei pressed. This time she was the one who reached for him. It was always easier to get Jaime to agree when she had her hands on him. “You said you wanted me. You belong with me. With our sons.”

“They’re hardly _my_ sons,” he said, but he didn’t make any move to escape her grasp.

“Just me, then. If you ever wanted me, Jaime, just let me do my work.”

He made no answer but to crush his mouth to hers. He took her again – so different from Robert, and so, _so_ much better for her – and Cersei decided she would take that as a yes.

 

\---

 

He did love to joust. It wasn’t as good as fighting with a sword was, but there was a lot of satisfaction in knocking an opponent off his horse all the same.

Only two more men to unhorse for another tourney victory. Jaime was determined to win this one. Nobody would break nine lances against him this time. Mandon Moore was his next opponent, Kingsguard versus Kingsguard. Moore had been having a good tourney, but not good enough to beat Jaime. He’d only beaten his previous opponent by luck as much as skill.

If Selmy (the favourite in the other tilt) was to be believed, this was the best the Kingsguard had collectively performed in a tourney for years. Ever since Harrenhal, and Selmy and Jaime were the only two left of Aerys’ seven anyhow.

After his joust, he retreated to watch over Rhaenys again for the rest of the day. She was coping fairly well, no matter what his sister had to say about the matter. As soon as the final joust of the day was done, confirming who Selmy would be facing in the morning, she retreated from the stands at speed and stayed in her room as long as she could before the evening meal, just for a bit of peace and quiet.

She was waiting for him when he returned. Tyrion was again sitting with her. He’d taken a liking to her, it seemed. He’d also taken a liking to wine since Jaime had seen him last. Jaime knew which liking he’d rather his brother indulge in.

“Congratulations, Ser Jaime,” she said when he was once again in earshot.

“Yes, well done,” Tyrion added. “If everything continues as it is, I’m set to lose my wager.”

He absolutely would lose his wager. It had been a losing bet from the start. At least they got along, unlike Rhaenys and his sister.

After this tourney, he might not see Rhaenys for a long time, if Cersei really was serious about having him recalled to King’s Landing. She had definitely sounded serious, and she was probably right about Robert finally giving in when neither Jon Arryn nor Ned Stark was around.

It wouldn’t be forever. Rhaenys would have to come to King’s Landing eventually. Hells, it might not happen anyway. Cersei had failed to have him recalled before.

Tyrion bid farewell to them both outside Riverrun’s walls, heading for his own pavilion and, Jaime suspected, another bottle of wine. The Stark contingent, on the other hand, returned to their rooms. “It’s nearly over,” Jaime told Rhaenys, once they were away from the crowds. “In a few days Riverrun will be as quiet as it ever is.”

“I miss Winterfell,” Rhaenys said. Jaime knew she had been pining for the place, but had by and large kept quiet about it.

“We’ll be on our way there soon enough too,” Jaime said. Maybe. Rhaenys would, in any event. “Don’t tell me you’re looking forward to the trip back through the Neck.”

If he thought that would cheer her, he was mistaken. She retreated into a bubble of sullen silence and didn’t respond to further attempts to engage with her. She even sent Robb away, when the boy came to ask for a story, and Robb was missing Winterfell – specifically his father and brother – as well.

He decided not to sneak off to see Cersei that evening, but stayed in his assigned room, just in case Rhaenys had another one of her spells and he was required to see her to the maester.

The next morning dawned clear and bright, promising a scorching afternoon. Not the best jousting weather. They all risked being boiled in their armour, and bad for the horses as well. Still, he only had to defeat Mandon Moore. _That shouldn’t be too difficult. Hopefully it will be settled with a single lance._

Not much of a spectacle, he supposed, but better than midsummer jousting.

Today would be the last day. His joust, then Selmy’s, a break for midday meal, then the final.

He didn’t see any of the Starks or either of his siblings before he went to prepare, trusting that they’d be in the stands. It was a bit unusual not to be the favourite of the crowds – in Lannisport, the smallfolk would hardly dare _not_ to cheer him on. Here, he still had the support of his siblings, the Westermen that had come with him, and the Starks (which he supposed was rather odd, given Lord Stark’s contempt for Jaime’s father), but Selmy was the crowd’s overwhelming favourite.

Still, no matter. It took two lances to finish Moore off. Not the single lance he’d hoped for, but acceptable. He dipped his lance to Cersei as he rode past, and saw her glowing smile. Next to her, Robert was also applauding, if not very enthusiastically. He returned to the pavilion to get out of his armour for even a little while, to eat and more importantly, to drink.

The sound of the crowd indicated first that Selmy had ridden out, and, shortly afterwards, that Selmy had won. Three lances, Jaime thought.

He dropped by the meal in his whites, probably not quite so crisp and shining as the stories said a knight of the Kingsguard ought to be. Nobody ever really sweated in the songs, though occasionally there were mentions of midsummer heat.

“Lord Tyrion paid me,” Rhaenys said with satisfaction when he reached her. “Lady Catelyn said I shouldn’t wager any more, though. She said it wasn’t proper.”

“Some ladies wager, other ladies don’t,” Jaime said. Cersei never had, claimed not to see the fun in it. Lady Stark didn’t. “But I wouldn’t cross Lady Stark. Enjoy your winnings, my lady.”

“Good luck for the final, Ser Jaime.”

“If I can’t beat him by skill, I don’t deserve to win,” he said. “Who wants luck in a tourney?” _Mandon Moore. My fellow member of the Kingsguard. Most of my other brothers in white, since they_ can’t _win a tourney by skill. How the singers must love us._

“All right then,” she said. “I hope you’re better than Ser Barristan.”

Cersei’s eyes were on them. He would have liked to go and speak to her as well, but he lacked the time. Not to mention Robert was still there, and they could not speak freely in front of him. No, if Jaime went to talk to Cersei while Robert was still there, the king would reduce him to a shiny ornament in no time at all.

He made his excuses – truly, he had a good one – and returned to prepare for the final tilt.

Tyrion was waiting for him in his pavilion, not a squire in sight. He was drunk, again. “Steady,” Jaime laughed, though he truly misliked how much wine Tyrion seemed to drink these days. “It’s a long time until dinner and there’s a lot of wine to get through.”

“Are you fucking her?”

“Fucking who, sorry?”

“Our sister. Are you fucking her?”

A chill went down Jaime’s spine. “You’re drunk,” he said.

“I am drunk,” Tyrion replied. “Very drunk. And you’re fucking our sister.”

“Tyrion -”

“You're not the most subtle about it. The way you look at her – not with exactly brotherly affection,” he said. “Cersei looks at you the same. I know you both. And you’ve snuck off at least half the nights she’s been here, or so your little princess said.”

“Why are you saying this?” he growled. Rhaenys had noticed that? This was the last thing he wanted to discuss. The absolute last. And Tyrion couldn’t have picked a better time. “You could get us both killed.”

For all Tyrion’s eyes were somewhat glassy and less sharp than they usually were, the set of his chin reminded Jaime a lot of their father. “Why do you think I haven’t said anything until now? You’re going to get _yourself_ killed,” he said. “Don’t be stupid, Jaime. I don’t care who you fuck. I care about _you_.”

“I have to prepare for the joust,” Jaime said, as coldly as he could manage. “I don’t want to hear anything else about it. Not another word. I’m not planning to get myself killed, you have my word on that.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes and staggered to his feet. “I’ll send your squire in,” he said, and left.

Jaime fumed and paced while he waited for the squire, before making a conscious decision to put the whole thing out of his mind. He wasn’t ashamed of Cersei. And of course Tyrion had figured it out. Of course he had.

By the time the final tilt was ready to begin, he had more or less calmed down. He and Selmy dipped their lances to Robert before they lined up to begin. Two knights all in white, no sigils or colours to distinguish them. At the signal, they charged at each other.

He was not at his best at the moment, Jaime realised, thanks to that little revelation from Tyrion. He landed a glancing blow to Ser Barristan’s shield, while Selmy’s lance crashed into Jaime’s shield and splintered. They both held their seats, however. The second tilt ended much the same way. As he prepared for the third, he saw Cersei’s disappointed face, and some way along the benches, Rhaenys’ anxious one.

That time, he nearly unseated Selmy. Just a little more force behind the impact would have done it.

On the fourth, they both broke their lances, but still no result.

The fifth brought the end. Jaime landed a solid blow to Selmy’s shield and knocked him from his horse. Victory was his.

He looked to Cersei, who was furiously whispering to Robert. He looked to Rhaenys, who was cheering along with Robb. Even Lord Tully and his children were applauding, Lady Stark more enthusiastically than the others.

Tyrion, he couldn’t see.

Jaime rode a victory lap and came to a halt in front of Robert, who stood. “We have our champion!” the king shouted to the crowd, who cheered. Even if Jaime had defeated their favourite, they were always pleased to see a good bout. “Come forward, Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard!”

He did so, dismounted, and knelt. “The queen asks that you be returned to King’s Landing to serve at my side,” Robert said, in a fairly normal volume. “What say you, Ser Jaime? A tourney reward? In honour of your victory?”

Cersei smiled down at him, radiant as he hadn’t seen her in years and years and _years_. Her beauty filled his mind. His love. She had done it. “As my king commands,” Jaime said.

“Gods know I’m going to regret this in a few months,” Robert muttered, but continued. “Very well then, you’re recalled. Ser Barristan will send a replacement north in your stead.”

“Your grace,” Ser Barristan said with a nod. The corners of his eyes were tight with displeasure, but as Cersei had said, he would not gainsay Robert. Especially not in public.

“One thing remains!” Robert shouted, for the crowd’s benefit again. “As the champion, it is Ser Jaime’s right to name the Queen of Love and Beauty!” The crown was brought forth, and Jaime took it.

He looked to Cersei – and looked to Rhaenys, whose eyes were wide. Lady Stark was frowning. They had clearly heard Robert’s words.

He made his decision.

The crown looked well on Rhaenys when he placed it on her head, the bright yellow of the flowers standing out against her dark hair. “Be brave,” he said to her, and saw the tears form in her eyes anyway.

 

\---

 

Rhaenys did her best. She quickly wiped her tears away, kept the crown on and smiled at everyone who complimented her. The flowers _were_ pretty, and she was very flattered, but it wasn’t what she wanted. Even the queen said a few nice things, but her stare was cold. Rhaenys _really_ didn’t think the queen liked her.

Ser Jaime was still following her for now. He said Ser Barristan hadn’t appointed a replacement yet, so it was still his duty to look after her. Rhaenys didn’t know what to say. 

She went to Riverrun’s sept to pray for a time, feeling shaky, like she sometimes did before the worst of her fits of panic. She couldn’t have one of those _here_ ; there were so many people around. The sept also showed signs of increased traffic, with many more candles burning here than usual, mostly in front of the Warrior and the Maid. It was to the Warrior’s statue Rhaenys went, and then to the Crone hoping for some extra wisdom.

When they were on their way back, walking through Riverrun’s godswood before the final feast and Rhaenys was reasonably sure there was nobody else around, she asked, “Will your replacement be good?”

“My replacement will be a knight of the Kingsguard,” Ser Jaime said. “I’ve told you before, nobody’s as good as me.”

Rhaenys had been watching the tourney, just like everyone else. Ser Barristan was very good with a lance, but he was Lord Commander. Ser Jaime had said that Ser Mandon, whom he had defeated to reach the final, had been having a good tourney and wasn’t as skilled as one might think from his performance this time.

Of course, she also knew that tourney performance and battle performance were very different things. Ser Jaime and Lord Stark both said that. She had paid attention.

“Do you _want_ to go?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“The king ordered me to go,” Ser Jaime said. “I cannot refuse him.”

That wasn’t an answer.

Further discussion of the topic was forestalled by the arrival of one of Riverrun’s servants. “Lady Targaryen,” the man said, “Lady Stark asks that you attend her in her rooms straight away.”

That was not a summons to be refused either, any more than the queen’s was. Any formal meeting with Lady Catelyn wasn’t anywhere near as scary as meeting with Queen Cersei, though.

When she entered Lady Catelyn’s rooms, leaving Ser Jaime outside, they weren’t alone. Ser Barristan and another knight of the Kingsguard were there as well.

“Lady Targaryen,” Lady Catelyn said, “may I introduce the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Ser Arys Oakheart, also of the Kingsguard.”

The two knights had stood when she entered, and they bowed. She curtsied in return, then took the sole empty chair. She sat forward in it, so that her feet reached the floor. She didn’t want to look like a little girl with her legs dangling in empty air. And if she had to, she wanted to be able to run.

“As Ser Jaime has been reassigned, we have been discussing the matter of your protection,” Lady Stark said. “The Lord Commander has nominated Ser Arys as his replacement.”

“You need not fear, my lady,” Ser Barristan said. “Our duty to you is the same as it ever has been. Ser Arys is a good man, more than capable of protecting you.”

Rhaenys kept her gaze fixed somewhere between Ser Barristan and Ser Arys, and said, “I thank you for your consideration, kind sers.”

“King Robert’s order will now go into effect,” Ser Barristan said. “Ser Arys will take over your protection starting tonight.”

_So soon._ She wanted to weep. “As the king commands,” Rhaenys said.

“We will all place our trust in Ser Arys,” Lady Catelyn said. “Thank you for coming to speak with us, Lord Commander, Ser Arys. If you will excuse us…?”

“Certainly,” Ser Barristan said. “I thank you for your own patience in this matter, and extend my apologies to yourself and your lord husband for any disruption in your domestic affairs this might cause.”

They left without another word. Rhaenys wondered if Ser Arys would be the one standing outside the door when she left, or if they would leave it until the feast. She hoped it would be the feast.

When the door shut behind them, Lady Catelyn sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I had no idea the king would do that. Nevertheless, I know how attached you are to Ser Jaime, and we must be very clear on how you are to behave.”

“Yes, Lady Catelyn.”

“Ser Arys, like Ser Jaime, will be coming with us for your own protection. I will not have you running off to spite him, nor will I tolerate discourtesy from you simply because he is not Ser Jaime. This reassignment is not Ser Arys’ fault.”

“Yes, Lady Catelyn. I know.”

“Very well.” She smiled, a bit wanly. “You have done me proud all tourney. Now go and change for the feast. It would not do for the queen of love and beauty to show up in the same gown as she wore to the jousting.”

Ser Jaime followed her to her rooms, but when she finished changing, Ser Arys was outside the door. “My lady,” he said.

Rhaenys ignored him as best she could. It was hard, though. He walked differently to Ser Jaime. He didn’t talk to her. He was shorter, and he had brown hair instead of blond. Ser Arys was just different, and it was so, so hard to ignore that.

She just didn’t feel as _safe_ with this stranger.

The closing feast was every bit as crowded and noisy as the opening feast, and she just couldn’t stand it. She danced only three dances, and left as soon as possible, Ser Arys trailing behind again.

“Ser Arys, will you excuse us?” a familiar voice asked, almost as soon as she was out of the hall.

Rhaenys nodded, and her new protector withdrew out of earshot, leaving her to speak with Ser Jaime alone. 

“I wanted to say goodbye,” he said. “For the moment. You’ll be coming to King’s Landing in a few years. You’ll see me again.” 

“It won’t be the same,” she said. Unable to meet his eyes, she stared at her shoes instead. “I’m going to miss you. And – and thank you, Ser Jaime. For the crown.”

Ser Jaime smiled. “It’s been my honour, my lady. Now, we had best return to the feast. Lady Stark will have noticed your absence.”

He took her arm again and escorted her back in. She lasted a few more dances this time, still thoroughly miserable.

The next morning, Rhaenys and Sansa climbed the walls of Riverrun again, to watch the royal party departing. It didn’t take long to spot Ser Jaime, riding beside the queen’s carriage.

He looked back once. He spotted them atop the walls, waved, and then rode on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thanks for reading, and second, all those people who've stuck with this fic, thanks for your patience!


	14. Once Burned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime returns to King's Landing, the better part of the Stark family to Winterfell, and everyone faces difficulties old and new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done! It's finally, finally done! I hope everyone enjoys it! No new warnings, I think, but naturally all the old ones still apply.

Davos had to admit to himself that the investigation was wearing on him. He was used to long voyages away from Marya and the boys, but staying in a city at length didn’t feel the same. Especially when that city was King’s Landing.

And the knowledge of how much wildfire had been left hidden in the city was a terrible burden. He had found more caches since he last spoke to Lord Stannis. One torch dropped in the wrong place, one room that grew too warm, and the entire city would go up in green flames. It would burn and burn and not stop until all the city’s buildings, even the stone ones, were naught but ashes.

It gave him nightmares.

Worse was the fact that he had found those extra caches working from the theory that the wildfire was deliberately placed to destroy as much of the city as possible. Lord Stannis agreed now – they were not seeking thieves, but madmen.

Today he and Lord Stannis were meeting with the Hand again, the situation having been far worse than even Lord Arryn had thought initially. When they had called him to King’s Landing, they could not have expected anything like this.

“A cache by every gate?” Lord Arryn asked. The Hand looked unwell, pale and gaunt with dark circles under his eyes. He seemed even older than he had when Davos had first seen him.

“I’ve checked four gates and found four caches there,” Davos said. “I have not checked the south side of the city yet.” And, my lord, I spent the last three days combing through the basements and storage areas of the Sept of Baelor.” Stannis had reasoned that if the gates were meant to burn, and the houses were meant to burn, there was no reason to spare the city’s great buildings. So he’d secured the permission of the High Septon for Davos to search, but discreetly. One man in plain brown clothing looking through cellars and basements could be overlooked for a time.

This could not be kept quiet for long. There was simply too much wildfire. 

Arryn rubbed at his forehead. “Let me guess. Another three hundred jars of the seven-times-damned stuff.”

“In an old storeroom,” Davos confirmed. Stannis had been right, and had nearly cracked a tooth when Davos had verified his theories. “Nobody had been in there for years, as far as I could tell. No windows in there, but if a servant was careless with a candle in there –“

“One of the holiest sites in the realm would go up in flames.” Tired as he looked, a sort of calm was settling over the Hand now. It was as though once he’d heard a certain amount of dire news, he could take any amount more. If the Sept of Baelor burned, it would be one more burning building amongst many.

Stannis said, “The only reason for that wildfire to be there is to destroy the Sept. It is not a legitimate or reasonable storage area, whether for the army or for thieves, nor could that wildfire have easily been brought to bear against armies in the field.”

That was the most important point by far. 

“A trap,” Arryn said, still with the tone of a man who could not allow himself to panic. “For whom, and set by whom?”

Davos once more took up the explanation. “My lord, from what I have learned from the pyromancers, that may be difficult to discover for certain. Every pyromancer who knew the details of Aerys’ wildfire order was killed when Tywin sacked the city.”

That broke through Lord Arryn’s composure. “ _All_ of them?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

“To a man,” Davos confirmed. It had been easy to get that information, at least. The alchemists he had spoken to had been most vocal about the losses they had suffered when their senior guild members had been killed. Davos hadn’t even tried to be sympathetic. “Other than those men, only one pyromancer was killed during the entire rebellion, and that was a novice who died in a cart accident.”

Arryn’s breath hissed out between his teeth. “An assassination, then. Was Aerys involved?”

Davos looked to Stannis. The guilt of kings was not a subject Davos was at ease pursuing. No more was Stannis, but he was Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. “Victim or perpetrator, we cannot tell. His coin was involved, at the least.”

_Does it matter, for such a long-past crime?_ Davos ached to ask, but he knew better. That was the fear thinking for him. As long as the city could burn, someone needed to answer for it.

“We must search the Red Keep,” Stannis said. “There is likely wildfire there as well.”

“I agree,” Arryn said. “Good fortune to you. The Red Keep is riddled with tunnels, thanks to Maegor.” 

There was a brief silence while they contemplated the entire court burning along with the city, not to mention the task before them.

“Jaime Lannister has been recalled to the city,” Arryn said at last. “He was here in King’s Landing for the duration of the Rebellion and may know something of the matter. If we are fortunate, he’ll know something of Aerys’ involvement. Unfortunately, speaking to him will most likely lead to the queen discovering the wildfire matter. When the queen finds out she and her sons have been living on kindling, the king will shortly hear about it, and the realm soon after that. Are the alchemists currently in charge of the guild innocent?”

“They strike me as genuinely ignorant of the caches,” Davos said.  _And too mad by half._

The answer did not please the Hand of the King. He drummed his fingers on his desk. “A pity. We might have our answers if they weren’t. I have half a mind to get rid of them all anyway. Lord Stannis, your thoughts?”

“The Guild is responsible for the situation,” Stannis said. “Disbanding them would be appropriate.”

“We did not disband the Guild of Armourers because they supplied the Targaryens during the war,” Arryn mused. “Disbanding them would be just, perhaps, but as they are, they have their sand-trapped safe rooms to work in. They’re the sort of fools who would set something on fire just to watch the flames; they would not be in their line of work otherwise.” 

“Disbanded, they could not afford the raw materials for their craft without a wealthy patron, and nor could they make it on such a large scale.”

“We will take the matter to Robert,” Arryn decided. “It’s time to do so. Ser Davos, find me the wildfire at the gates, and thank you for your help. I will see you amply rewarded for this, do not fear.”

Davos could only hope that the city stayed unburnt long enough for him to collect on that promise.

 

\---

 

After years of trying to nag Robert into recalling him, Jaime thought Cersei didn’t seem very happy with the results. “It was one flower crown,” he said. “There’ll be other tourneys.”

“A crown you gave to a _child_!”

“Are you honestly jealous of her?” Jaime shook his head. “I just wanted to give her a going-away present. It seemed a good one at the time. Besides, the crown was yellow. It’s never been your best colour.”

“Thank you, dear brother, for that observation. First you give the crown to a girl, then you tell me it would suit me ill in any event. I haven’t been humiliated so since Stannis Baratheon’s wedding.”

She _was_ jealous. Jaime couldn’t believe it. First Catelyn Stark, now Rhaenys Targaryen, and no amount of assurance seemed to be enough for Cersei. “I came with you,” he reminded her. “I’ll make it up to you, never fear.”

Cersei smiled at him. It was a rather cutting expression. “As you have told me many times, coming with me _wasn’t your decision to make._ ”

That was it. Jaime wished he could ride away. He settled for circling around to ride at the rear of the carriage. It was the best he could do.

It wasn’t as bad as the trip through the Neck had been on the way to Riverrun, but it was plenty bad. It reminded him of the last time they’d travelled together, actually, in those last few days before Cersei wed Robert. Unable to touch, unable to talk, a distance between them that Jaime didn’t know what he was supposed to do to bridge.

He did at least have a bit more free time. He hadn’t thought about that. Here, he was one of six guarding the king, rather than lurking protectively about the charge he was solely responsible for.

A third of a day near Robert Baratheon was infinitely more tiresome than two-thirds with Rhaenys, however.

They stopped at an inn the first time Jaime had night duty, and Robert found a willing woman to share his bed. That meant that Jaime had to ensure the woman in question was not carrying a dagger of any sort (thanks to Rhaenys’ efforts to conceal her own dagger from view, he had a good many ideas about where and how a woman might hide such a weapon) and then stand outside trying not to listen as his sister was dishonoured. Loudly and repeatedly.

Worse were the rare occasions when Robert decided it was Cersei he wanted. Cersei was not a woman willing, and while she was no Rhaella to futilely protest _you’re hurting me, you’re hurting me_ , Jaime could see the hatred in her eyes. _You can kill him for me one day,_ those eyes promised him.

Twice a kingslayer. He didn’t know how he felt about becoming _twice_ a kingslayer. He hadn’t told even Cersei about the first time.

He still didn’t feel the slightest shred of remorse for killing Aerys. It had been necessary, and more than that, it had been right. Someone had had to kill him before he could order King’s Landing burned, and Jaime had been the man on the spot. Oaths or no. His brothers in white would not approve; his brother by blood would surely understand.

The royal procession moved at a crawl even slower than the trip to Riverrun had taken. Robert at least had that much consideration for Cersei and the boys. 

Joff didn’t like him much, he’d discovered. Every time Jaime came near Cersei, Joff scowled at him. Cersei laughed it off. Jaime couldn’t help but think that neither Eddard nor Catelyn Stark would have allowed any of the children in their care to behave so – not Jon Snow, not Theon Greyjoy, not Rhaenys Targaryen, and certainly not any of their four trueborn children. Still, it wasn’t his place to say so. Robert was the boy’s father, by law and custom and if Joff or Jaime or Cersei were to keep their heads on their shoulders. Robert was definitely the one Joff idolised. Jaime was content to keep it that way. 

Tommen was too small to have much of a personality, as far as Jaime could tell. He lay there and gurgled, good-natured and boring. Hardly anyone paid him any mind but his nurse. Jaime couldn’t think of the boy as his son either.

Mostly, though, Jaime tried to stay near Cersei. After so many years in Winterfell, being near her on the road was another kind of torture. Every day, she was _right there_ , and he couldn’t touch her.

He told himself that it would be different when they finally reached the Red Keep. There were places to steal away to in a castle that there weren’t on the road.

The journey seemed almost endless, but they never really were. First the smell of King’s Landing made itself known – Jaime hadn’t missed that, for sure – and then the Red Keep itself came into view, high atop Aegon’s Hill. The White Sword Tower was on the other side of the castle, not visible from this approach.

Lord Arryn was there to welcome them back. He raised an eyebrow when he spotted Jaime in the party, but did not so much as glance at his wife. Stannis Baratheon was there too, looking as usual as though he’d just bitten into a lemon. And there was Varys, too, he always seemed to survive. “I trust you enjoyed yourself, your grace,” Arryn said, once Robert had given them all the gesture to rise.

“Better than I enjoy sitting around here, that’s for sure,” Robert replied.

“A pity, your grace, but it is good to have you back all the same.”

Robert laughed, a sound that echoed off the walls. Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime saw Cersei fix her smile in place. “All right,” Robert said, “What do you want of me, Jon?”

“Merely a few moments of your time, your grace, at your earliest convenience.” 

“You can have them. Tomorrow. I’ve been on the road for ages. If it’s kept long enough for me to get back, it can keep another night.”

Arryn didn’t look surprised at Robert’s delay. He bowed, and the party began to disperse. Robert marched off to wherever he went – likely to find a feast table, or possibly a woman and then a bed – while Cersei took her children to the nursery. Arryn finally offered an arm to Lady Lysa and they proceeded slowly out of the hall. Varys approached Renly Baratheon and the two went elsewhere for some sort of light-hearted chat.

But Jaime lingered a second in front of the Iron Throne. He’d watched men die on these steps, killed a king on them, and knelt here as he was tactfully exiled off north. It wasn’t so very good to be back.

When he turned to head in the direction of the White Sword Tower and the room that would be waiting for him there, he realised that Stannis Baratheon was still there. “Lord Stannis!” Jaime said, smiling in a way he knew would aggravate the other man. “Such a pleasure to see you again.”

Stannis, of course, scowled back at him. “There are questions I must ask you, Ser Jaime.”

The statement made Jaime’s hackles rise. “Oh, well, who am I to keep you waiting? Lead on, my lord, and I’ll see if I can help.”

 

\---

 

Ned had been surprised to receive a raven from Catelyn. He had fully expected to hear nothing from her until she and the children arrived at the gates. When he read it he was rather less surprised that she had felt the need to send word.

Jaime Lannister recalled. Well, he knew it must happen one day, if Queen Cersei was so determined to have her way. Robert was, sadly, often not firm on matters such as these. He probably saw it as a small thing right now.

He did not know much of this Arys Oakheart that the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had decided to send in Ser Jaime’s stead. A Reachman, from his name.   _He seems an adequate replacement,_ Catelyn had written.

Those were her only words on the subject. Once she would have written more. When she finally arrived back at Winterfell, he doubted she would say anything else to him.

It pained him, this distance between them, but he would _not_ send Jon away. 

The boy had been unhappy enough with all his siblings gone. In the absence of Robb and Rhaenys, he had thrown himself into his lessons. He was serious and dutiful as Lyanna had never been, though he had seen flashes of her temper in Jon. It worried Ned, sometimes. _Better Lyanna’s temper than the madness of his father’s family,_ he reminded himself. It was dangerous for Jon to have _anything_ of his father’s family.

Oh, gods, poor Rhaenys. She would be unhappy about this, but there was little and less to be done about it. She would have to manage.

The evening meal was a quiet affair, as it had been every night since Catelyn and the children had left. Ned conversed with the chandler about his trade, while at the other end of the table Jon and Theon sat in silence. Those two had little to say to one another, and from what Ned had observed, when they did it was usually acrimonious.

After the meal ended, when the chandler had gone, Ned asked the boys about their lessons. Jon was starting to learn the quill; Theon was progressing adequately with the history Maester Luwin had given him to learn.

“I had a raven from Lady Catelyn this afternoon,” Ned told them. “The tourney is over and they are on their way back.”

Relief showed on Jon’s face. The last few weeks had been very difficult for him. No, Ned couldn’t send him from Winterfell. What had been done to the boy was unfair enough already. He could keep the family he had left, for the next few years at least. 

“How much longer will they be?” Jon asked.

“Weeks,” Ned said. “It’s a long way from here to Riverrun. But the end is in sight.” He would be glad to have his children back at Winterfell too. Even Catelyn, whose presence in Winterfell left him with decidedly mixed feelings these days. He still nurtured the perhaps-unreasonable hope that she would accept his reasoning. 

Not that he ever expected her to accept Jon himself.

_Did you know what you asked for him, Lya? I can keep your son safe, but I cannot keep him happy. Did you know what you asked of_ me _? Did you care who I’d have to lie to, what that might cost?_

“Father?” Jon asked. “Is something wrong?” 

“No, Jon,” Ned lied.

The weeks he had said it would take Catelyn and the children to return went by in a flash to Ned, though he suspected they felt rather longer to Jon and Theon. Winterfell could never feel empty, but he had missed his children.

When word came that the carriage was approaching, Ned went out to greet them himself. Robb practically flung himself from the carriage in his eagerness to get to either Ned or Jon, and Arya did her best to follow him. Catelyn laughed at the sight and Ned felt another twinge of regret. Sansa followed Rhaenys from the carriage, looking more tired and tearful than either her sister or her brother. Rhaenys appeared downcast as well, trailed by a very different knight, though she too managed a smile when she saw Jon.

Ser Arys was an affable-enough looking man, Ned supposed. Light brown hair, square jaw, medium build. A more serious countenance than his predecessor. Not so much younger, either, and lacking Ser Jaime’s obvious arrogance. Ned very much doubted Ser Arys was the swordsman Ser Jaime was, and would honestly be surprised if he jousted as well either.

Catelyn introduced them. Her greetings to him were distant, but perfectly cordial nevertheless. Nobody could ever accuse her of impropriety on that account.

“Welcome to Winterfell,” he said. The stewards would need to have more warm clothes made for Ser Arys. It was high summer (still) yet the Reachman looked cold. On journeying to Riverrun for a tourney he could not have expected to make the journey north. 

“It is my honour to be here,” Ser Arys said. He was courteous as well. Southerners did not consider Winterfell a glamorous posting, and Ned had seen how the tedium of guarding a young girl in a remote region of Westeros had sometimes grated on Ser Jaime. Ned sent Ser Arys off with a servant to the room that would be his.

Then Ned was standing alone in the courtyard with Catelyn. The children had all left (or, in Bran’s case, been carried away). For a second he thought she might say something, but instead she brushed past him and returned to the castle. He had expected nothing less.

\---

 

Lord Stannis insisted that Davos be there while he talked to Ser Jaime. “You have been involved from the beginning,” he said. “And you worked well enough with Ser Jaime during the Greyjoy Rebellion. The man is insufferable, but he doesn’t bite. No, Ser Davos, you will assist me.”

Once more Davos wondered how he’d got into this situation. Smugglers did not interview the sons of Lords Paramount or knights of the Kingsguard. But he would do what what Stannis ordered. He owed the man that much and more.

It was the first time he’d ever been in the Red Keep. Davos was showed past the throne room – he glimpsed the Iron Throne and its shadow through the open doors, towering and sinister – and into the heart of the castle. 

Ultimately he was taken to a sparsely-furnished solar of moderate size, the desk carefully positioned to get light from the window. Nearby was a stand of good quality wax candles, unlit at this time of day, but carefully trimmed and tended. All of the chairs looked hard, even Stannis’ own. The servant who showed him here invited him to sit while he waited, and Davos confirmed that indeed, the chairs were uncomfortable.

Davos stood when Lord Stannis entered, Ser Jaime Lannister in tow. The younger man smiled when he saw Davos. “Ser Onions! What are you doing here?”

“He is assisting me in this matter,” Stannis ground out. “And he is here by my request. I would thank you to call Ser Davos by his name.”

“As you will,” Ser Jaime said. He inclined his head. “Ser Davos.”

“Ser Jaime,” Davos replied. 

“So what am I here for?” Ser Jaime asked. He took a seat before Stannis gestured that he should do so. “It must be urgent for you to accost me almost as soon as I walked back into the Keep.” 

“Wildfire,” Stannis said, and Ser Jaime’s smile flickered like a candle.

“I’m vaguely familiar with the stuff,” he said. “Aerys was rather fond of it, as I recall.”

Stannis grunted. “Tell me.” 

“There’s not much to tell,” Ser Jaime said. “Once you’ve seen one man burned to death, you’ve seen them all. The best pyromancers can make it take a long time to kill a man that way. It burns green. That’s about all I know.”

His smile had steadied. It had to be a front. Who smiled when speaking of watching people burn alive? How old had Jaime Lannister even been? He wasn’t so much older than Dale, so about the age Allard was now? Matthos’ age, even? His older boys had seen hangings enough, but Davos felt in his gut that burnings were different. Even a botched hanging would be quick and clean by comparison.

“In the last few months we have found enough wildfire scattered around King’s Landing to burn the city down. They seem to have been placed to achieve exactly that outcome,” Stannis said. “What say you to that?”

No reaction. Odd. “It sounds like something Aerys would do.”

“You are not surprised?” 

“No.”

“Did you know about this?”

“No,” Ser Jaime said. “I was Aerys’ bodyguard. He took me on for my father’s name, not even my skill with a sword, and certainly not for my skills as a quartermaster.” 

Stannis’ shoulders set in a hard line and his jaw clenched. “The Kingsguard know all there is to know of a king’s affairs.”

“Well, we do swear never to tell.”

“You are keeping _Aerys’_ secrets for him?”

“Hardly,” Ser Jaime said.

It was the reaction Davos least wanted to hear. It was possible that the dead pyromancers had devised their mad scheme of their own accord, and abused the trust Aerys had most foolishly placed in them. Assuming Ser Jaime told it true. The younger man had a reputation for hotheadedness and arrogance, rather than dishonesty. It was also possible – just – that if Aerys was involved, he had hidden his part in it from Ser Jaime.

Lannister must have realised their consternation, for he added to Stannis, “Fear not, your royal brother’s secrets are safe with me.”

Davos decided that now was the time for him to speak. “Can you tell me about the pyromancers, ser?” he asked.

Ser Jaime turned to Davos. “Which ones?”

“Any that Aerys showed particular favour towards,” Davos said. 

The younger man sighed. “It’s been a few years. Rossart, I remember him. He roasted the last Lord Stark in his armour. And he did such a good job burning – was it the mace-and-dagger Hand? I can’t recall his name – that Aerys made him Hand for it.”

That he remembered Rossart was unsurprising. Rossart was also amongst the pyromancers dead on the day of the Sack. “You know that he is dead?” 

“Of course I know that.” The question seemed to amuse him for some reason. “Murdered in the Keep itself. You’ll have a hard time finding someone who’ll weep for him, Ser Davos.”

“Any others?” Stannis asked. They hadn’t expected Rossart to have made friends in King’s Landing, as Hand of the King. Quite the reverse. _Everyone_ would have wanted him dead. Much as had been the case with Aerys, there were far too many suspects. Including the man before them.

Ser Jaime took his time thinking back. “Belis,” he said at last. “And Garigus.” 

“Did you know that _they_ were dead?” Davos asked.

“No,” Ser Jaime said without hesitation. Or surprise. “Nor do I care. We are all better off without them, I’m sure. Cowards and murderers, both of them.”

An interesting comment. Davos dared not look to Stannis. “Can you think of any reason why they might have been killed?”

Ser Jaime rolled his eyes. “I did mention that they were cowards and murderers. All of the Red Keep feared them. Aerys was free with the wildfire in those last months. They were very good at burning men, and they got a great deal of practice.” 

“How often would Aerys summon them?” Stannis asked. 

“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t with him every minute of every day, after all. I had to sleep sometimes, and besides, I think Aerys was half afraid I’d kill him myself.” That amused Ser Jaime as well. “He certainly didn’t trust me.”

And no matter how Stannis put questions to Jaime Lannister, he received much the same in answer. Still Davos thought there was something _off_ about Ser Jaime’s responses. Behind the smiles his hatred for Aerys and the pyromancers was palpable. If he lied, he lied well. No doubt he had been asked many of these questions before, in the aftermath of the Sack.

“What do you think?” Stannis asked him, once Ser Jaime had departed. Stannis had asked for Ser Jaime’s discretion in this matter. They did not truly expect him to stay silent to the queen.

“He already knew of the pyromancers’ deaths, no matter what he said,” Davos said. “I’m sure of it.”

“If he was the one to kill them, he must be punished appropriately,” Stannis said. He drummed his fingers on his desk irritably. “There is no proof, and Ser Jaime himself has given up a plausible alternative explanation.”

Davos suppressed a shudder. _Aerys was very free with the wildfire. Aerys would have burned the Kingswood to the ground._ Perhaps Ser Jaime was right to hate the Mad King. “We cannot verify the extent of the plot to burn the city, either,” he said. “We might have gone backward in our investigation.”

“There is also the matter of Ser Jaime’s vows,” Stannis said. “I do not know if I can, or should, ask him to break them. Even if those oaths were to the Mad King.” The words only etched the scowl more deeply onto Stannis’ face. _Does he think of what his brother asked of him?_ Davos wondered. He hadn’t known Stannis at the time, nor had Stannis ever said anything to him about the decision. _Kin or King?_

“Would it truly be breaking his vows?” Davos asked quietly. “Aerys is dead and the dragonkings are no more. No man calls Ser Barristan Selmy turncloak for swearing allegiance to King Robert. Would they call Ser Jaime turncloak for passing on Aerys’ secrets?”

But Stannis shook his head. “I do not like the precedent it would set. A King needs to trust the Kingsguard. Their discretion must be absolute. And Ser Jaime is no Barristan the Bold.”

“So we must have proof…or a confession.”

“Just as before. We should take Lannister at his word for now.”  _Until we find aught else._ Stannis didn't need to say it. It would have been an unwise thing to say aloud, in any case. The Queen’s brother, Tywin Lannister’s son, a knight of the Kingsguard, could hardly be brought before Lord Stannis or the Hand for endless inquiries, not without certain consequences. It was such a grave matter that they might risk it anyway.

They could not allow the mystery of who would have burned King’s Landing to remain unsolved.

 

\---

 

Oakhearts were not made for the North, Arys had concluded on the slow journey towards Winterfell, shivering the whole way. He’d huddled into his too-thin cloak and dreamed of the long hot sunny days of his boyhood. When he’d gone to Riverrun, he had not packed clothing suitable for the North. In any season.

It had _snowed_ once as they travelled, and as the children played he had asked the Lady Catelyn whether summer might be on the wane. She had smiled and told him that it was still high summer and this was a light summer snow that fell. At his look of dismay she had added that he would grow accustomed to it in time.

Winterfell, thanks be to the gods, was quite the warmest castle he’d ever been in. Perhaps it only felt so by comparison but under the circumstances he hardly cared. In addition to that, Lord Stark had dispatched a tailor as promised, to make him some warmer clothing. Never before had Arys worn summer clothing that needed to include wool and fur. It was heavy, but at least Arys was warm again.

Between the cold of the climate and the chill in the eyes of his new charge, Arys was finding his posting at Winterfell less than enjoyable.

Oh, she was a well-behaved and quiet child, almost trivially easy to guard, but several weeks in each other’s company had not lessened Rhaenys Targaryen’s mistrust of him in any large measure. She consented to allow him to guard her readily enough, though she tended to flinch when he accidentally came too near, and usually tried to keep him in sight rather than at her back. That happened often as he learned to match his pace to hers. She also watched him like a hawk when he neared one of her foster siblings.

Every so often she would turn backwards out of habit, as if to make some comment, and when she saw only him standing there, her disappointment was writ plain on her face.

He had heard her weep just once, late one night as they journeyed back from Riverrun. If she had shed any more tears she had hidden them well. 

The castle was also seemingly overrun with children, any two of whom were usually in some dispute. Arys had guarded Prince Joffrey from time to time, but Queen Cersei never did approve of the prince spending time with his inferiors. This was different. Lady Rhaenys and Stark’s bastard son disliked Stark’s Greyjoy ward and all three held to their grudges ferociously. Stark’s heir had a quick temper and not a week went by that he didn’t scuffle with his bastard brother or snap at his sisters, though he was quick to apologise and forgive once he had calmed. Stark’s elder daughter was jealous of the attention her younger sister and brother required. Said younger sister was nigh unmanageable.

Overshadowing all of this was the tension between Lord and Lady Stark themselves. It was common gossip in the castle that they had once been very close, but they had apparently argued some months back. It was generally agreed that it probably had something to do with Lord Stark’s refusal to foster his bastard son out.

All told, it made Winterfell itself a less than cheerful place.

Well, he was not here to make either Lady Rhaenys or himself happy. He was here to keep her safe.

“Where are you from?” Lady Rhaenys asked him out of the blue one day, about a fortnight after they arrived back at Winterfell. He noted the lack of _Ser Arys_. For some strange reason she only ever called him by name when Lady Stark was in earshot.

“Old Oak, in the Reach,” he told her, surprised. Lady Rhaenys was Dornish – well, her mother had been Dornish. Most Dornishmen he had ever encountered had already known of the Oakhearts and Old Oak. 

“Oakheart,” she said. “I suppose that makes sense. What’s it like?”

He stumbled over a description of his ancestral home. Try as he might he could not convey to her the beauty of their famed godswood – he could not find words for the trees better than “tall” and “broad.” “I do not do it justice, my lady,” he said at last.

“I believe you,” she said. Then she turned and walked away as if they had never been conversing. Arys stifled a sigh.

The day after, Arys stood guard outside one of Rhaenys’ lessons. Embroidery, this time. From the septa’s comments, he gathered that Rhaenys’ lack of skill with one particular type of stitching in particular was giving them both grief. He hung on to alertness with grim determination. He would not pass out from boredom. He would not. 

Lady Stark’s approach jarred him from the encroaching fog. “How are you finding Winterfell, Ser Arys?” she asked him.

“Pleasant, my lady,” he said instantly. He could never say otherwise. He did not wish to cause offense.

She simply raised an eyebrow at him.

“It takes some getting used to, my lady,” he admitted. “The climate.”

“Indeed it does,” Lady Stark said. “It took me years. I would have been very surprised if you had adjusted within a month. What I mean to ask is whether Rhaenys is behaving.”

Arys hesitated. “She does not avoid me, my lady,” he said. “Nor does she trust me.”

Lady Stark nodded. “That is not so surprising. I will speak to her of the matter.”

“She is very protective of your own children.” And of Stark’s bastard son as well, but it would be neither a good idea nor strictly necessary to mention that to Lady Stark.

“She is.” A slight grimace flickered across Lady Catelyn’s face. “Given her brother’s fate, that is perhaps also not surprising.”

Arys knew of what had befallen the child prince during the Sack of King’s Landing. If he himself had seen such a thing happen to any of his siblings, he would have done his best to strike back at the perpetrator, no matter how hopeless such a thing might have been. Such a crime would doubtless move even – perhaps especially – a girl so gentle as the Lady Rhaenys to mistrust and fear.

“I do not mind,” he said. “With time she will see that I only hope to be as dutiful a protector to her as my predecessor was.”

Lady Stark smiled at him then. “I wish you the best of luck, Ser Arys. I truly do.”

It was perhaps an hour later that Lady Rhaenys had shown sufficient progress with her needlework to be released for the afternoon. She glanced at him as she left and allowed him to follow her at a slight distance. “I’m going to the yard,” she said.

“I will follow you wherever you want to go,” Arys replied.

She nodded, though she looked dissatisfied. As they walked, he was careful to keep himself in the corner of her eye.

When they arrived in the yard, it was to find that Sansa had also been released from her reading lesson. Arys was quite fond of Sansa. She was quiet and very little trouble, even less so since she had decided that she would be friends with the steward’s daughter Jeyne. 

A nursemaid had brought Arya out as well. He was rather less fond of Arya, who seemed incapable of being either quiet or still. He thanked the gods almost every day that the daughters of Winterfell rarely enjoyed their leisure time at the same time as its sons. Otherwise he might well be mobbed. 

Today Arya made a beeline for him, walking steadily towards him on her short toddler legs. He could tell from the intent expression on her small face that she was determined to try and play with him.

It was a very different sort of life. He used to worry about King Robert’s safety; now he worried about being tripped by (or, gods forbid, trampling on) a girl hardly taller than his knee.

To his surprise, Lady Rhaenys intercepted her foster sister. “No, Arya,” she said firmly. “You must leave Ser Arys alone.”

Arya made no reply, but attempted to squirm out of Rhaenys’ grip. “No,” Rhaenys repeated. “Ser Arys has a job to do. You are not allowed to play with him.” The smaller girl scowled, but Rhaenys did not relent.

“Thank you,” Arys said, when Arya had finally given up. It took a while. Arya could be stubborn.

“It’s nothing,” Rhaenys said. “Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn never let us get in Ser Jaime’s way, so we shouldn’t get in yours either.” She hesitated. “I know you’re only here to protect me.”

“I know you were fond of Ser Jaime,” Arys said. “I only mean to take his responsibilities here, not his place in your heart. I will show you that you can trust me as we come to know each other better.”

She nodded at him. “All right.” She turned partially away from him, a little awkward and flustered. She still didn't want him too close - but she was allowing him slightly closer to Arya than she was usually wont to do.

Arys hid a smile. It was a start.

 

\---

 

The little chat with Stannis Baratheon and Davos Seaworth left Jaime unsettled long after he left their company. He didn’t like thinking about wildfire or Aerys at the best of times. He liked answering questions about them even less.

It was probably just as well that someone had found all that wildfire. Jaime hadn’t even thought about that. A bit careless of him, really. He’d been trying to _stop_ the city burning down.

What would he do if Stannis and Ser Onions asked him again, and more? He didn’t like hiding behind his oaths. Especially not the oaths he’d sworn to Aerys.

All these years the secret of killing Aerys had never exactly weighed him down. He’d never felt an instant’s guilt for it, not once. If anything, he should have killed Aerys _sooner_. Jaime had been wearing his Kingsguard cloak and not felt any remorse even as a few errant drops of royal blood spattered over the white wool. 

Yet he’d lied to conceal what he’d done that day. As the years passed he could almost believe that he’d truly done what men said he’d done – made a mistake borne of inexperience. 

Most days it didn’t matter. Others he felt the lie more keenly. This, it seemed, was one of those days.

Any questions about the wildfire would lead to Aerys eventually. Perhaps they already had, and that was why Stannis wanted to speak to him so urgently. Briefly he entertained the notion of confessing. Stannis would denounce him as an oathbreaker and murderer for sure, no matter the circumstances. Jaime _was_ an oathbreaker, so that part at least was fair. And a liar, too. 

If he was discovered, his word would forever after be worthless, his honour meaningless. The thought bothered him more than he thought it would. _Too much time with bloody Starks_. He’d like to keep what honour he had left.

He also betrayed his oaths with Cersei, but that was different. That was _Cersei._ There was little he would not do for his sister, though she seemed not to know it anymore.

On reflection, he was a bad knight of the Kingsguard, as most people would account it. He had saved King’s Landing and rescued Rhaenys Targaryen though. Protecting the weak and the innocent – those were the most important parts of his vows, weren’t they, the very first they made him swear? The ones he’d said before Ser Arthur Dayne, the ones he’d earned the right to take on the field of battle?

“You’re worrying again,” Cersei said. “You’ve turned into an old woman, I swear.”

Jaime managed a smile. “Not in the least.” 

For all her sharp words, he could see that she wanted nothing better than to strip him down and have her way with him. Sadly, they were well in view of any number of courtiers and servants, not to mention he was on duty watching Cersei’s sons, and such a thing was impossible. His fantasies of finding some time alone with her, properly, were turning out to be just that.

Neither of them had ever taken well to being denied anything, particularly each other.

“What did Stannis Baratheon want with you?” Cersei asked. “He’s not the sort to pay anyone a courtesy call.” 

Should he tell her? He loved Cersei, he just never told her anything about those last days of the Mad King’s reign. Not about the wildfire, not about the truth of Aerys’ death. “Nothing that wouldn’t have waited a few hours, but you know how Stannis is,” he said. If the wildfire had kept all these years, a few more hours couldn’t matter. “Call it a reorientation.” 

“Don’t lie,” Cersei snapped. “They’ve tried to keep it quiet, but Stannis has been meeting with the Hand. Now Arryn has Robert cooped up in chambers. Something’s going on.”

Jaime shrugged. “The King and the Hand are consulting. It happens. What’s interesting about that?”

Cersei rolled her eyes in reply. “Because _Robert Baratheon_ is the king we’re speaking of. The only consulting he does is on how many men to take on the next hunt. But Arryn has held Robert’s attention for hours now. Robert hasn’t paid hours of attention to a matter of state since Balon Greyjoy’s little flirtation with independence.”

“I’m sure it can’t be that dramatic,” Jaime said with a smile. Or perhaps Stannis’ chat with him couldn’t have been delayed after all. “You’re very cross today, sweet sister.” 

Cersei glared at him. “I’m with child again. I had hoped to inform my lord husband of that fact, only I find that he’s busy with affairs of state. And I do mean affairs of state, not whores.”

“Ah, well, you can simply inform me first, then.” 

He smiled again, more widely (another child – he didn’t know how he felt about that) but inside that chill ran down his spine again. It was all his least favourite things – plots and kings and wildfire. He liked it not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! Thank you all for sticking with this! I know it took me a REALLY long time to update this time.


	15. From The Heights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A busy period in the court of Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, and a quiet period in Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I have no excuse, but it's done now and you all get to read it. Reiterating domestic violence warnings about several fantastic Westerosi marriages.

The Dragonpit was a derelict place, abandoned atop Visenya’s Hill, a monument to the ruin of dragons. There were still old scorch marks on the walls, glassy patches in the stone. Dragonfire burned stone as well as what Davos was searching for. It was dug partially into the hill itself, turning dragon caves and livestock pens and keepers’ quarters into a dangerous maze of broken brickwork and rotted wood. 

If there was wildfire here, it could be anywhere. At least he could be fairly sure it would never see the sun. If only he could be sure that it would not see an errant flame.

Mostly, though, he found rats and spiders.

It was only his first day of searching here; it would undoubtedly take several more to uncover anything of use. Davos tired of the work. He wanted to go home, back to Marya and the boys.

When he finally emerged, filthy and tired, he ran straight into two Red Keep guardsmen. “The king has sent for you,” one of them informed him. “Come with us.”

The king?

Neither Lord Stannis nor Lord Arryn had thought that Davos would be required for them to tell King Robert all that had thus far transpired. Nor had Davos thought that he would be needed. “Might I have some time to clean up?” he asked. “Forgive me, I am in no fit state to meet his grace.”

The guardsmen looked at each other, and then at him in his dirty clothing, with his grime-smeared face. “He said immediately, ser,” the one on the left said. “But we’ll take you past a washbasin on the way.” 

Kings wanted what they wanted when they wanted it, Davos supposed.

It had already been a long day, and it seemed to him that climbing the hill to the Red Keep was that bit more strenuous than usual. He was already going to see King Robert looking more the smuggler than the knight, without being red-faced and slightly out of breath as well. Marya would be disappointed with him. His elder sons would be too.

As promised, a servant brought him a bowl of water and a cloth, but nothing could stop him from looking like a city labourer. 

Davos approached finally approached the king’s solar with his escort and a great deal of worry. He could hear shouting coming from within. Just the one man shouting, he thought. One angry man making his displeasure known. One angry king.

Two stoic Kingsguard waited outside the door, dutifully not reacting to the events inside. They allowed Davos to pass when summoned, and Davos got his first look at the king he ultimately served.

Robert was a huge man, towering in his anger. Even though he had run to fat, it was hard to imagine that he was less imposing now than he had been in his youth. The king just took up that much space in the room. “This is the man who’s been helping you?” the king snapped at his brother. 

Lord Stannis had a look of very deliberate stoicism on his face, just as much as the Kingsguard outside. So did Lord Arryn. “Ser Davos. Yes.”

“Your grace,” Davos said.

“I recommended Ser Davos for the job,” Stannis said. “He has performed admirably.”

“One man!” Robert shouted. “One man! The _whole city_ could have burned down!”

From that, Davos thought, the king might have finished shouting about his Hand and his brother concealing the matter from him. For the time being.

“At the time we did not know the scale of the problem,” the Hand said. “Without Ser Davos’ help, we might still have remained in ignorance.” 

“And now that you _do_ know, why am I only just finding out now? Speak clearly, Jon, damn you, I don’t need you to start talking rings around me as well.”

Or maybe Robert wasn’t done on that topic after all. Well, Davos never claimed to be an expert on the ways of kings. 

Lord Arryn glanced at Davos briefly before returning his gaze to the king. “You are the first to know outside Lord Stannis, Ser Davos, and myself. I dealt with the matter as I saw fit, initially, and the seriousness of the threat only truly became apparent whilst you were at Riverrun, your grace. We are at your disposal.” 

The words made Robert deflate, just slightly. “Damn it, Jon,” he said. “You should have made me listen yesterday.”

“Your grace, if I have learned anything about you during our long acquaintance, it is that I can never _make_ you listen to anything.” And for the first time, Davos saw Jon Arryn smile. The expression was as worn down as the rest of him. Behind his back, Stannis was grinding his teeth again.

Robert turned to Davos then. “All right. You. Ser. Tell me what it is you’ve found. Don’t leave anything out. I’ve had enough of that for one day.”

The king’s moment of cheer (the Hand, if nobody else, seemed to be forgiven his delay in telling Robert) lasted only a few minutes. Once Davos began speaking of his first discussions with the pyromancers and the first caches he’d discovered, so carefully placed, King Robert’s mood turned thunderous again. He cursed explosively once Davos began to outline his suspicions that the Mad King had been involved. 

“Is there nothing they won’t stoop to?” he roared at last, face very red. “Targaryens!”

“There is no proof,” Stannis said harshly. “We have looked, and found none. Nothing certain, not yet. All the pyromancers we are sure were involved were murdered during the Sack, along with Aerys. The men were cleaned up even if the wildfire itself was not. We cannot even say whether their killer was their enemy or a co-conspirator.” 

Robert’s lip curled. “It sounds like a very thorough investigation you and your man did.”

“We have found what we have found. No more and no less. I trust you appreciate how serious the matter is, your grace.”

“And the matter is hardly closed,” Jon Arryn added, with a glance at Stannis. “Ser Davos has just come from searching, I gather, from the state of his clothing. Lord Stannis asked him to search the landmarks of the city.”

“The Dragonpit, your grace,” Davos said. “Nothing yet, but I have just begun.” 

“Why would anyone want to burn that wreck down?” Robert asked.

“A fire there might well go unnoticed until it is far too late, your grace,” Davos said. “For all it was built to contain dragons, fire and all, it is now in a state of disrepair. If it caught alight today, it could well take everything around Visenya’s Hill with it.” 

Robert grunted. “Madness.” 

_They do not call Aerys the Mad King for nothing._

“Whether or not your predecessor set the pyromancers to burn the city, something must be done about the guild,” Jon Arryn said.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Robert snapped. “They’re done. I’d like to hang them all, but no doubt one of you will tell me that's a bad idea. If you do, make sure your argument's damned convincing.”

“I agree,” said Stannis. “They are too dangerous to be allowed in King’s Landing. Exile or death.” 

Jon Arryn shot Davos another glance. “You may go, ser,” he said. “Thank you for your time. Our apologies for taking you from your search.” The king grunted some sort of agreement, and Lord Stannis nodded tersely, backing up his dismissal.  Davos didn’t particularly want to be a part of these discussions in any event.

As he left, he heard King Robert start to shout again.

 

\---

 

Cersei had been right. They _were_ up to something – her husband, Jon Arryn, and Stannis Baratheon. Their meeting had dragged into a second full day, so naturally Robert did not have the time for her.

_It’s only another child_ , she thought viciously. _Only another son or daughter for him to call his own. What does Robert care?_ She was _glad_ she’d told Jaime first. It was appropriate. 

She had no idea what the three of them could possibly have been talking about. There wasn’t much that could hold Robert’s attention that long. Now there were guardsmen lurking about, more than Robert usually had, and Robert himself was glowering down from the Iron Throne. 

The full Small Council was there, too, another unusual occurrence. Ser Barristan looked tense, but there was always a pole up his arse. That wasn’t particularly notable. Varys, however, didn’t have even a trace of a smirk or a simper. If the two-day meeting hadn’t been enough to convince her this was something important, that would have.

Then there was Jaime. Cersei suppressed a scowl. Her brother, it seemed, had lost his nerve. He was supposed to love her. He was supposed to be hers and only hers. But there he was again, standing at attention near Robert, the very image of the perfect knight of the Kingsguard.

He was her knight. _Hers._

Cersei’s train of thought was interrupted, and the chattering of the court largely silenced, by Jon Arryn rising to his feet and bringing the court to attention. He looked more crow than eagle in his midnight blue. A good choice, under the circumstances, since cream made the Hand look half a corpse.

“Representatives of the guild of alchemists are hereby called before the King,” Jon Arryn called out. “With all haste.”

Without a moment of hesitation, Selmy drew to attention and peeled off with a group of guardsmen. That looked as if it had been planned out in advance. What _could_ Arryn be up to, and how did it involve Robert? Cersei’s mind raced. 

She glanced at Jaime, and realised that _he_ knew. _Jaime_ knew. What did he know? He hadn’t told her what it was Stannis Baratheon had wanted to speak to him so urgently about when he had returned. She might have been distracted by the realisation she was with child again, but not that distracted.

Whatever it was, something had angered Robert. She remembered how he had been in the days after Balon Greyjoy declared war – it had been a good thing she had grown adept at powdering over her bruises. It was like that. This time perhaps he might be appeased by knowing she was with child. He was always at his most affectionate when she was with child. 

That was unbearable too, but in a different way.

The next hour passed with the usual tedious business of court and Robert glaring down at them all from his throne. It was rare enough for him to even sit still, let alone sit the Iron Throne. Even so, it was the most he’d looked like a king since the day Cersei had wed him.

At last Barristan returned, ahead of a trio of scrubby-looking, nervous, pyromancers herded along by the guardsmen. “Your grace, the representatives of the Guild of Alchemists.”

“Step forward,” Robert said, and a path cleared in front of the unfortunate alchemists. Cersei leaned forward, not sure what was going on.

Jon Arryn took over from there. “You stand accused of gross negligence,” the Hand said, as the alchemists quaked in their boots. “The wildfire you produce is dangerous, yet audits have revealed the extent of your carelessness. What say you?”

_What? What_ carelessness _is this, that it requires the Hand and the King to deal with it?_

Shaking, one pyromancer stepped forward. “Your grace,” he said, looking to Robert in the mistaken belief the king would help, “my lords, we had no knowledge – “ 

“Which is precisely the crime of which we accuse you,” Arryn interrupted. “If any men in this city should have known about your stocks of wildfire, it is you, the guildsmen. As guildsmen, you have certain responsibilities to the crown and to the city.”

“We cannot be held responsible for the malfeasance of our predecessors!” one pyromancer protested.

“Then where are your own records? Why was it not you who came to us, telling us of the irregularities in your accounts? You _lost wildfire_ , and it was the agents of the crown who discovered it, not your own people.”

Wildfire. That was what this was about.

Fury flared in Cersei’s heart. Missing wildfire? In the city? Where? How much? Had she been in danger all this time? Had her sons been in danger? 

Had Jaime _known_? He obviously knew something.

Cersei was a queen, though, and she kept her face still. This could not be all that Arryn had planned. He and Robert would pay for keeping this from her, but later. If Arryn was planning to have the pyromancers hung for their carelessness, she could wait all day.

“Have you an explanation?” Arryn persisted.

“It was stolen!” the first, stupidest pyromancer protested. “It is not our fault!”

“ _It was your fault!_ ” 

Robert’s sudden shout rang off the stones, and more than one of the Red Keep’s delicate flowers flinched at the sound. He had hauled himself to his feet, and from the Iron Throne’s height even Cersei could admit he towered most effectively. “It was your fault!” he shouted again. “Who else should be responsible for wildfire in this city? The guild of tailors? The guild of armourers? Who, if not you?”

“Your grace –“

“No,” Robert said. “The Hand has collected all the evidence of your stupidity anyone could ever need. You are here to hear my judgment. That is all.”

He sat back down, carefully avoiding the sharp edges of the Iron Throne. “The Guild of Alchemists has been neglectful of its duties and in so doing has put the people of this city in danger,” he announced. “It is therefore disbanded as of now.” 

Cersei maintained her straight-backed posture and impassive face. Disbanding a guild! Her father would have the pyromancers burned with their own wildfire. That was the way to treat stupid guildsmen. _Who could have burned them all to death by accident._

“Lord Stannis will oversee the dismantling of your stocks,” Robert said. “Personally.”

Stannis was there, of course, and grinding his teeth. When was he not?

Robert dismissed the pyromancers from the hall, escorted by a much larger group of guards this time, and Stannis as well. Then Robert excused himself, his interest in proceedings lost, and Arryn took his place on the Iron Throne.

With that, Cersei herself was done with court for the day. She had to speak to Robert. And then she had to find Jaime. She had somewhere to go.

 

\---

 

Jon was avoiding her. He’d been snappish with Robb since they’d got back from Riverrun, but now he was avoiding her too. Rhaenys was starting to worry about him. More than she already did.

It didn’t have anything to do with Lady Catelyn in particular; nothing had changed there. She was still trying to keep Sansa, Arya and Bran away from him. Rhaenys still smuggled him in to see Arya and Bran in the nursery, and she knew Robb called him over on the rare occasions Sansa was playing at the same time he and Jon did. 

She’d thought it was Theon’s fault that Jon was missing now. He and Jon had been stuck here for weeks without the rest of them.

“I didn’t do anything!” Theon protested when Rhaenys cornered him. (Ser Arys, she could tell, disapproved, but she didn’t let that stop her.) “I hardly spoke to him all the time you were gone. What would I want from that little bastard anyway?”

Rhaenys thought that Theon just liked being mean, but she wasn’t sure how to say that. “I don’t know, but you pick on him all the time.”

“No I don’t,” Theon huffed. “Why do you care?” 

“I like Jon,” she informed him. “And he was stuck here while we all had to go to Riverrun for the stupid tourney. He actually _wanted_ to go.”

Theon scowled. “So did I. I was stuck here too. Lord Stark won’t even let me go to Castle Cerwyn without telling him.” 

“He doesn’t let any of us go to Castle Cerwyn without telling him.”

“That’s not my point, stupid!”

It was true. She knew what he meant. Lord Eddard would never _ever_ allow Theon to go to Castle Cerwyn by himself because King Robert had said that Lord Eddard had to keep Theon as a hostage. It wasn’t very different to how she had to go to Riverrun, even though she hadn’t wanted to, because the queen said she had to. “I’m sorry,” Rhaenys said, feeling pity for Theon for the first time.

Theon just sneered at her. “I didn’t speak to Snow. He was boring. Sulking all the time. Now go away.”

Pity extinguished, Rhaenys said, “It’s no wonder Lord Eddard won’t let you out of the castle,” and marched off. Her skirts whirled satisfyingly around her as she did so.

When she was some distance away from Theon, she at last noticed the look on Ser Arys’ face. “You don’t approve?” she asked. Ser Jaime had usually thought it was funny when she and Theon fought. Not that she had ever picked fights with him for Ser Jaime’s entertainment, nor did she quite understand the joke.

“It is not my place to say, my lady,” Ser Arys said.

“What if I say you can?”

Ser Arys did not quite shrug. “I think, my lady, I would defy you. I am neither your lord father, nor your brother, nor the guardian of anything but your physical safety. It is for Lord and Lady Stark to instruct you how you should speak to Theon Greyjoy.”

Interested now, Rhaenys persisted. “But you do think something, don’t you?” That hadn’t come out quite right. “I mean –“

He at least looked like her misstatement had amused him. “I know what you mean, my lady.”

Rhaenys blushed. “Well?”

“It’s not my place to say, Lady Rhaenys.” Ser Arys’ tone was flat and final. So he _did_ disapprove, and he likely disapproved of her trying to push him into answering as well.

It was just this sort of thing that stopped her from trusting him entirely. She didn’t like having to _guess_ what he thought, not when he could just _say_ it. Not to mention he hardly ever smiled. True, Ser Jaime had smiled all the time whether he was happy or not, but that was better than Ser Arys’ tree-stump blank looks. Lord Eddard did a good blank look too, but he only used it in public. With his family he was different. Not to mention he told her what he thought of her. Lady Catelyn did the same.

She was trying to get used to Ser Arys, she’d promised that she’d try, but it was just so hard.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a glimpse of Jon. She put Ser Arys out of her mind – he wasn’t nearly so important as Jon.

It was the godswood Jon was headed for. Of course. He liked it there. Rhaenys still hated it. She wasn’t as scared of it as she had been when she was little, but she still felt like the trees were watching her. It was the one thing she liked better about Riverrun than Winterfell – its godswood.

To her surprise, Jon _hadn’t_ gone to the heart tree. Rhaenys sighed with frustration when she saw the small clearing deserted. It was that much longer she’d have to search. “Will you tell me if you see Jon?” she asked Ser Arys.

“Yes, my lady,” Ser Arys said.

Rhaenys didn’t think Ser Arys liked this place either. His eyes flickered from tree to tree as if he thought something dangerous might be there. But she doubted he’d say anything. (Ser Jaime had described it as _creepy_ in an idle tone, with a smile.) Unlike Ser Arys, she wasn’t new to Winterfell. She knew how to handle the northern godswood. “There’s another place,” she said. “Jon and Robb play there if they want to avoid people.”

“Lead the way, my lady.” 

The place Rhaenys was thinking of was a hollow between two trees, just enough space for two small boys to swing sticks at each other, quite awkward for adults to get to thanks to some dense brush and inconvenient branches. Ser Arys looked at it and decided he wouldn’t try. Rhaenys herself was getting too tall to get past them easily, and her skirts caught as she did. Jon looked up at the noise.

Then he looked away. He truly didn’t want to speak to her.

Theon might be an ass, Rhaenys reflected, but in this case he wasn’t wrong. Jon _was_ sulking. He had been sulking before they left and now he was sulking again. She was well and truly fed up with it. “What are you doing here?” she asked him.

“Go away.”

“No. What are you doing here? Hiding?”

“Yes,” Jon admitted. 

“Why?”

He was silent for a time. “I don’t belong here,” he said at last. “In Winterfell.”

Rhaenys frowned. “You’ve lived here all your life,” she said. “Well, except a few months when you were a babe. But you’ve been here longer than _Robb_ has. Lord Eddard insisted you stay.”

Once more it took Jon a while to respond. He was struggling with the words like he’d struggle with a difficult sum, Rhaenys saw. “Father’s the only reason I’m here,” he said at last. “I’m just a bastard. I hear people talk. Father refused to foster me anywhere and that’s why Lady Stark won’t speak to him or let me see Bran and Arya.” 

“He loves you,” Rhaenys said. “So he keeps you.”

“He shouldn’t,” Jon said forcefully. Rhaenys could see tears in his eyes, though he wasn’t looking directly at her. “Not like he does. Before you left, he told me he treats me as much like Robb as he can. He shouldn’t. Robb is –“ and here his words ran dry. The helpless wave of his hands showed Rhaenys everything that Robb was and Jon wasn’t – Lord Eddard’s heir, mostly. “I make everything harder for Father.”

Rhaenys had nothing to say to that straight away. She knew it was true. “ _Robb_ loves you,” she said at last. “He’ll make sure you belong here. Even when you’re grown up.”

Jon shrugged. 

“Besides, if you’re not welcome at Winterfell, you’ll always have a place with me,” she said. It was a reckless promise, she knew as soon as she said it. But what good was being a queen or a princess or even just a lady if she couldn’t help the people she loved?

Jon had it pretty good, too, she thought. Better than he thought he did, despite being a bastard. Lord Eddard loved him. Robb and Sansa loved him. Arya toddled after him whenever she could. _She_ loved him.

Her own father couldn’t have loved her all that much if he left her and her mother to – no. And though Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn cared for her, she knew she was a guest in their home. An honoured and respected guest, and she was sure they were fond of her, but a guest nonetheless. 

“It wouldn’t be the same,” Jon said.

“No,” Rhaenys agreed. “I don’t want to leave either.” Much less get married. “Are you going to come out now? Maester Luwin is going to start asking where you are if you hide much longer.”

“All right.” Jon got up and slipped out of their little hiding spot easily. He even cracked a smile as Rhaenys struggled to do the same. Her foster brother walked through Winterfell’s godswood without fear or unease. He _did_ belong in Winterfell. She’d just have to make sure he knew it.

 

\---

 

Cersei came to him with a smile on her face and anger glittering in her eyes, bright as the emeralds in her necklace. “Would you be so kind as to accompany me on a trip to the city, ser?”

“Of course, your grace,” Jaime said. His sister looked to be in a _your grace_ sort of mood. “Might I ask where we are going?”

“Why, to see the Guild of Alchemists torn down.”

“It sounds like a pleasant excursion,” Jaime agreed. 

Cersei did not take his arm, a signal that this would be a semi-formal affair with him to be present as a knight of the Kingsguard rather than her brother. He was getting used to her cues again. When they’d been younger he’d known what she wanted as soon as she touched him. He hadn’t thought they’d grown so far apart. Perhaps it was to be expected after so many years separated from each other.

_No more. I am here for her now._ No matter how angry Cersei could get with him, Jaime was determined to make this work. He knew that Cersei wanted the same.

She led him down to the castle gates, where she had a litter waiting. She gestured that he should get inside with her. Jaime suppressed a grimace. He disliked litters; much better to walk under his own power. Or to ride, a good strong horse that took skill to ride well. Litters were closed in and stuffy. The hot summer of King’s Landing would make it even more unpleasant. He got in anyway. 

When the litter was moving, and the hustle and bustle of the city could be heard on the other side of the litter’s heavy curtains, Cersei asked, “Did you know?” 

“Did I know what?” Jaime asked in return.

“About the _wildfire_.” Cersei’s eyes suddenly reminded him of the stuff.

He’d come too far with this lie to back out now. “What about it?”

Cersei spoke with deadly intensity. “Did you know that there was wildfire in the city?” 

“Besides the usual stuff in the guild? No,” Jaime said.

“Why did Stannis want to speak with you, then?” 

“They asked,” Jaime shrugged. “I don’t know anything about any missing wildfire. I haven’t seen the stuff since the last burning Aerys did. That’s what I told Stannis.” Half a truth might be safer than none.

What would Cersei do if she found out he had lied to her? He didn’t think he had done so before. Omitted truths, yes, but not lied. It didn’t seem right. No, it _wasn’t_ right.

But he did not want to lose her. He did not want to lose his pretty white cloak, either, when it was the only thing that let him stay close to her. The first time it had done so, when before it had only kept them apart. 

_Keep the king’s secrets._ It was in his vows, but it wasn’t the reason he lied. He could be honest with himself about that. 

Cersei was speaking again. “Fine,” she said. “But I still want to see the place torn down.”

“As do I, my sweet sister,” Jaime said. “As do I.” 

They rode in silence the rest of the way, Jaime enjoying the smell of Cersei’s perfume and the sight of her smile. Behind the curtains of the palanquin he didn’t have to worry who saw him admiring her. It was better than sitting there resenting the palanquin.

For once, and hopefully for the last time, the Guild of Alchemists was a hive of activity. Even better, it was a hive of activity making the alchemists thoroughly miserable. The Keep guards were stationed here and there, keeping the press of the King’s Landing crowd off them and the pyromancers from running. Stannis was already there, overseeing everything with a scowl.

The doors to their hall were smashed open, the grand torches in there unlit. Jaime would wager that once upon a time those burned with wildfire; it gave him rather a great deal of satisfaction to think of those torches carted away for scrap.

Stannis’ knight of onions spotted him and Cersei before they could get any further. Soon the air was filled with the murmured sounds of _your grace_ and men bobbing their heads respectfully as Cersei passed. Stannis was too correct in his manners not to do the same, but the rapidly deepening lines on his face showed just how unhappy he was. _His eyebrows will stick that way_ , Jaime thought. “Might I ask what you are doing here, your grace?” he asked, biting out each word.

In response, Cersei smiled sweetly. “I have come to see that the danger has passed,” she said.

“If you return to the Keep my men will send word,” Stannis replied.

“I just wished to see how your men planned to dispose of something such as wildfire.” The sweet smile dropped. “I have no intention of leaving until I am certain my sons are safe.” 

“I have no time for that,” Stannis said.

Jaime left them to it, moving over to Ser Davos. “Still here?”

“Aye,” the man said. He looked tired. “It’s been a long few moons.” 

“That long?” Jaime raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Stannis has been working you hard.”

They looked out at the bewildered pyromancers and their erstwhile institution. The guild signs were already down from above the door. “The reward is worth it,” Davos said at last.

“An unpleasant bunch,” Jaime agreed. “It warms my heart to see their toys taken away from them. Metaphorically warms my heart, that is.” A thought struck him. “I don’t suppose _you_ could take us down there, Ser Onions?”

Davos hesitated. “If Lord Stannis agrees,” he said. “It’s dangerous work. I understand the wildfire can only be disposed of through burning it, a little at a time.” 

_Burning it_. Jaime suppressed a shudder. “On stone, I hope.” 

“And underneath a sand trap,” Ser Davos said.

“Would it be safe enough for her grace to observe briefly? I doubt she will be content until she is certain her sons will not be accidentally burned to death in their beds.” 

It was, after a bit more arguing between Cersei and Stannis. The actual disposal of the stuff was to be halted whilst Cersei was in the building, just in case anything went wrong. The prospect of such a delay set Stannis to grinding his teeth again. They left him there in the hall, trying to disperse the curious onlookers. 

From the entrance they went down, since the alchemists had built into the hill rather than up over the town. It was dark – Davos carried only a single candle, and very few of the wall sconces held torches – and damper than Jaime had expected. Though in truth he was not sure what he _had_ expected. Huge green bonfires and leering dragon statues throwing vast flickering shadows everywhere, perhaps.

Cersei sniffed with disdain at one point. “I’m sorry, your grace,” Davos said awkwardly. “I understand that the alchemists tried to build for safety.”

“You would think it would be a good deal safer if they could see what they were doing,” Cersei replied tartly.

“It takes strong nerves to keep a torch near wildfire,” Davos said. 

Jaime recalled how cautiously Aerys’ pyromancers had been as they bent to light the pyres they had built. They had not been careless at all. If anything they had been _too_ careful, the better to cook their victims slowly. Jaime was not squeamish, but even so, his days at Aerys’ court had thoroughly extinguished any liking for roast pork he might once have had. Nor was he craven, but as Davos had said, he would not relish the task here. 

Ser Davos led him and Cersei into a tiny stone room. It was far warmer than the corridor outside and smelled strongly of wildfire. Much of the stone around the workbench was scorched.

There was no actual wildfire in the room. Stannis had drawn the line there. It was too dangerous for the queen, he said.

“The ceiling in here is false,” Davos explained. “If a fire gets out of control, there is a mechanism that will collapse it, so the ceiling falls and the room is filled with sand.”

“Wildfire burns stone,” Jaime objected. “Wouldn’t it just melt all the sand?”

“I don’t know much about wildfire,” Davos said. “But I think it _does_ melt a lot of the sand and burns out much more quickly than it would otherwise.” Leaving some unfortunate pyromancers to chip flawed glass from around the corpse of whatever unfortunate fellow had let a fire run wild in the first place. Ghastly. “The workbenches will probably have to be replaced a few times.”

“How fast can this be done?” Cersei asked. 

“It will take several moons, your grace,” Davos said. “The safest way is to burn a bottle at a time in these workrooms, allowing time for the room to cool between burnings, and there are thousands of bottles of wildfire to dispose of.”

“I want the stores under guard,” Cersei snapped.

“Already done, your grace.”

“I want some of my own men there.” Lannister men. Jaime would feel better too for having some Lannister soldiers involved. With Stannis running the operation he wasn’t too concerned about discipline getting lax, but it wasn’t the same as having Lannister men there. 

“I will speak to Lord Stannis,” Davos promised.

Jaime knew that Cersei would speak to Stannis herself, but his sister didn’t press the point. Yet. He’d probably hear more about it later. So would Stannis, for that matter, and at length as well. 

“Satisfied?” Stannis asked when he saw their small party returning from the bowels of the alchemist lair.

“No, Lord Stannis,” Cersei said. “I am not satisfied at all.”

“I’d be happy for them all to swing,” Jaime commented. “It’d keep the gallows occupied for a while, but at the end of it we’d have no more pyromancers.” 

“Robert has decreed otherwise.” Only, knowing Stannis even as little as he did, it was clear that he wouldn’t have minded hanging some pyromancers either. _Stannis knows_ , he remembered. _Stannis knows what Aerys wanted to do._ He just didn’t know for sure it was Aerys who wanted to do it. He cast his mind back to their discussion a few days before. Jaime had definitely mentioned Aerys. Foolish of him, really.

Would Stannis guess what Jaime had done? Could he guess? The uncertainty wasn’t going to be much of a companion. He was going to be living in fear and paranoia like a common murderer.

He was sure of one thing, though: thus far, Cersei was the only good part of returning to King’s Landing.

 

\---

 

As the queen and her brother were carried away in their palanquin, Lord Stannis snorted. “Just as well that’s over with,” he said. “With any luck she won’t make any more demands of me.” 

He gave the order to accommodate the queen’s Lannister guardsmen as Davos simply surveyed the activity and thought. Queen Cersei had brought her brother along. “My lord, whose idea would it have been for Ser Jaime to accompany his sister?”

Stannis frowned. “I do no know either well enough to say for certain,” he said. “Cersei is not one to forgo the trappings of royalty, and by all accounts she is very fond of her brother. Does it matter?”

“Ser Jaime loathes the alchemists,” Davos said. “And he knows more of wildfire than we thought. He knew it burned stone.”

“Common enough knowledge,” Stannis said. “Have a care, Ser Davos. I gave you leave to investigate the wildfire, but your investigation seems to have taken you somewhere perilous indeed.”

_He did not say stop._

As it were, Davos had no intention of stopping. Ser Jaime, he was ever more certain, knew more than he told. Davos had kept an eye on him as they had toured the guild.

It seemed to Davos that the one who had murdered the pyromancers (and the _King_ , was such a thing possible?) was very likely to have known of the plot to burn the city. And there had to have been a plot, nothing else explained the caches and their locations. The list of suspects was long on possibilities and short on actual names. One careless word and any servant in the palace could have learned of it; even careful words may not have concealed the plot from Varys the Spider and his spying ilk.

But for every servant, Davos’ thoughts kept returning to Ser Jaime. Lannister had a mixture of bitter hatred for Aerys and the pyromancers and the sheer impetuosity that Davos could easily believe would lead a man to murder.

But the relationship between Ser Jaime and the Mad King was not so simple as a man stumbling across a murderous plot – if that was what it had been, which Davos had no evidence of it being. Hotheadedness and hatred was one thing, grand betrayal and oathbreaking the likes of which Davos had never heard the like of before quite another.

His problems had been so very different when he took on that last cargo of onions. Here he stood watching a guild be dismantled because of what he had discovered.

His work was not over yet. 

Three days later, after Davos had indeed discovered a cache of wildfire hidden in the Dragonpit (to his dismay but, alas, not to his surprise), the Hand called him to his solar. No more surreptitious meetings in the city. The time for secrecy was mostly past. The extent of the old plot to burn King’s Landing was the last thing they were hiding from the townspeople and most of the court.

This time at least he was able to visit in a presentable state. Though of course, once he had climbed all the many stairs in the Tower of the Hand, he did not _feel_ quite so presentable.

The Hand’s guards ushered him directly in to where their lord sat working. Davos did not envy the old man his papers and books. “Ah, Ser Davos,” the Hand said. Once again Jon Arryn smiled. 

“My lord.” 

“Sit, sit. No need to worry. This is a better kind of meeting than we have had before.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Davos sat as directed. So it was time for him to be paid, then, in a fashion. That was good.

As expected, Arryn said, “We must discuss how you are to be rewarded for your good work.” It seemed he had something in mind, for he immediately continued, “Lord Stannis gives me to understand that you have four sons?”

“Five, my lord.” 

“Five sons! You are a fortunate man indeed.” 

“If you will pardon me, my lord, it is not so much the number but the fact that they are good boys, all of them.” Even Allard, and gods knew that boy had given him and Marya no end of worry.

Jon Arryn smiled again. Sadly, Davos thought, and remembered that the Hand had no children that had lived past infancy. “If you are willing, there could be a place in my household for one of your younger boys. It has been some time since I have fostered a boy, but I am willing to do so again.”

A fosterage was a grand offer indeed. He could not turn this down, even if he wanted to. 

“My lord does me a great honour,” Davos said. “My fourth son, Maric, is of an age to make the most of the opportunity.”

“How old is he?” 

“Eleven, my lord.”

“And his education?” 

“He can read and write, my lord, and has some little training as a squire.” Arryn might say Davos was fortunate to have five sons, but in truth Davos still did not know how to provide for them all the best he could. He was wealthier now than he had ever dreamed of being in his life, and still worried about the costs of knighthood. “He learns fast, though, and I am sure he would not be an embarrassment to you or yours.”

That seemed to satisfy Arryn. “Very well. If you would send for him, Ser Davos, I will take his upbringing in hand.”

“I will. Thank you, my lord. It is a great honour.”

“Nonsense,” Arryn said. “Your diligence and discretion have done much to aid the safety of this city and all its people. It is the sort of service that must be rewarded. It will be _my_ honour to educate your son in the city you yourself have helped to save.”

Davos had always thought that Arryn was a cold fish, but he seemed to relax even as Davos watched. “Besides, ser, I must admit I rather miss fostering. I fostered his grace in the Eyrie when he was a lad, and the current Lord Stark as well. Do not think that you and your son will be the sole beneficiaries here.” 

The man had no children of his own, Davos reminded himself. “All the same, my lord. I thank you.”

 

\---

 

Lysa had been expecting this particular caller for some time. Time enough to put on her finest dress and powder her face and send most of her maids away. Petyr did not always give her enough notice – he did so like to surprise her – but this time he’d asked ahead if he could call on her.

Jon was out too. They both made sure that Jon was well away before they met. Would that Lysa could send _all_ her maids away, but Petyr insisted on at least one, for propriety’s sake.

“We cannot have them saying that our dear Lord Hand has horns,” he’d say. Very, very quietly. “It is the only thing that stops me taking you back to my rooms. Or insisting that you take me to yours.” 

_Why should it matter if Jon is Hand_ , Lysa would think when he said it. _I love Petyr and Petyr loves me._ Neither of them cared if she was wed. 

“My lady,” he said when her maid showed him in. Even when he was being proper, he was so charming.

“Lord Baelish,” she replied. Lysa could be proper too. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, Lysa. I trust you enjoyed your visit home?”

Lysa had leapt at the opportunity to leave King’s Landing . But she had gone because she wanted to see Cat again, and Edmure. If she could go the rest of her life without laying eyes on her father again she’d be more than happy. 

She’d also gone to escape Jon for a few weeks. The journey back to King’s Landing had been spent full of dread, knowing that Jon would wish to bed her again when she returned. And he had. Thrice in the past week. She had lain under him, eyes fixed on the ceiling, praying that this time her womb would quicken. And then, if it quickened, the babe would be well.

Unknown to her sister, she had visited the nursery at Riverrun and her youngest nephew in it. She had held the little Tully-looking babe her sister had named after that brute Brandon and tried not to weep. Her stillborn babe had had that same fiery red hair, but his skin had been waxy and blue-tinged in death. 

It was unfair. Her sister’s babes were all hale and hearty. They had clustered around Cat, the three that were walking, and they looked at her with so much love.

_Just one,_ she had taken to pleading the gods. _Please, just one babe. I swear I won’t let this one get hurt. Ever. I won’t let anyone take him from me._

“Lysa?” 

“Riverrun isn’t my home,” she told him, more harshly than she intended. 

The words didn’t seem disturb Petyr in the slightest. “I suppose not,” he said. “But is here home?” 

“Now that you’re here too,” Lysa said. “You’re the only person who makes this bearable, my love.”

Petyr hushed her with a soft touch over her lips, a brief touch that watchers might yet take for a brotherly sort of gesture. “The walls have ears, my lady. The walls have ears.” He gave her another secret smile, and oh, how Lysa longed to take him to her bed. “What news of your sister?” he asked, in a tone more fit for the listeners in the walls.

The comment was like a slap in the face all the same.

“Adequate,” Lysa said. “She has four children now. Two boys and two girls.” It wasn’t fair. It _wasn’t fair._

“And her husband treats her kindly?” 

“He keeps his bastard in Winterfell and schools him alongside Cat’s eldest son.”

Lysa thought she saw a glint of anger in Petyr’s eyes. “She deserves better,” he said.

Everyone wanted to talk about Cat. It was always Cat. Lysa loved her too, but really. She was right here. Right in front of Petyr. _And we love each other._ She changed the subject. “Has my lord husband been keeping you busy?” she asked. 

“Oh yes,” Petyr replied. “I’m looking over some accounts for him, this business with the guild of alchemists. You wouldn’t believe how much money they’re burning…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to all my readers - it keeps me going. <3


	16. Breaking Points

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say that three can keep a secret if two of them are dead. For Jaime, that principle might not be enough. In Winterfell, Catelyn has other problems with secret-keeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been a long time. Again. Welcome to what will probably be the penultimate chapter of Disengagement. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> As far as warnings go, there's a bit of extra emotional manipulation here and references to a forced abortion, but nothing else I haven't already warned for.

If there was something Jaime was very good at, besides swordsmanship, it was standing in front of doors looking impressive. His skills in that realm had brought him the prestige he deserved, standing outside the most esteemed door in all the realm. 

Behind that door, well. Robert was drinking. And whoring. Business as usual.

He found he could not go away inside as he once had. He had lost the knack. When he thought of Cersei, he was reminded all the more that her husband was dishonouring her and yet Jaime stood by. His thoughts inevitably turned to killing Robert and exacting some revenge for his sister. And so he could never quite distance himself as he once had with Aerys.

Kingship was a strange beast, Jaime reflected. It was Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon who did the real work of ruling the kingdom, yet it was Robert’s door Jaime and his fellows guarded. Robert, who served the realm when Arryn trotted him out to hold another tourney for the masses, and only then.

These were not good thoughts for a member of the Kingsguard to have. They would only lead back to thoughts of honouring his sister with Robert’s lifeblood. Once you’d killed one king, it seemed, it was only too easy to think of killing another.

After what seemed an age, Robert finally finished and came to the door. “We’ll be going to the feast tonight,” he told Jaime and Greenfield, the other Kingsguard on duty. His personality was as dull as his jousting was. “Jon wants me to drink all the guild leaders under the table.”

 _It shouldn’t be a challenge for you, your grace,_ was what Jaime wanted to say. He restrained himself. Robert might take that sort of thing from Jon Arryn, but not from his bodyguards. 

When Robert had gone back into his rooms to dress, Greenfield said, “I’ll take the door.”

“As you like,” Jaime replied, though it meant he would be posted at the table during the feast.

Now they trusted him to guard a king again and Jaime almost wished they wouldn’t. He did loathe Robert.

At some point in the last few days, Cersei had found the time to tell Robert she was with child again. Now the king was unbearably self-satisfied. At the feast he would no doubt put his hands all over Jaime’s sister. As if Cersei _wanted_ him to touch her. Robert wasn’t even the father of her children.

The feast was a fairly low-key affair as far as royal feasts went. It wasn’t like there were many high lords here. Jon Arryn had arranged it to help reassure the guilds that they still enjoyed the confidence of the crown. 

“Have you ever met the head of the guild of carpenters?” Robert asked Jaime casually as they proceeded towards the great hall.

“I’ve never had the pleasure, your grace.”

“Jon tells me there’s none to be had. The man’s a thoroughgoing prick, he says. Got his arse where his head should be.” Jaime doubted Jon Arryn had used quite those words, but Robert was still speaking. “Jon also tells me that one feast with him will have the man gloating to all and sundry for half a year, if not more. I might have to go and apologise to his wife.” His leer left no doubt about what  _apologising_ would consist of.

Jaime kept his hand away from the hilt of his sword. If an assassin had burst out from around the corner, he was not sure he could draw. Or should.

Besides, it was a reaction that Robert wanted. Jaime would not give it to him. He smiled instead. Robert snorted.

They were late to the feast, technically. This sort of event never truly began until the king arrived. The wine was already flowing freely. 

The scene would have been unthinkable for Aerys’ court. Back then there had been plenty of men and women who had drunk a goblet of strongwine before meeting with Aerys, just to calm their nerves, but only the most foolish got drunk. You needed your wits about you when dealing with Aerys, and even that didn’t always help.

Robert’s court, it seemed, thought little of getting drunk in the Great Hall. It seemed genuinely cheerful in here, Cersei’s glower aside. Robert had had a guild torn apart and yet the city’s other guildsmen were in here feasting without reservation.

Neither Jon Arryn nor Stannis Baratheon were there, of course, but off to one side was Stannis’ only friend the Onion Knight, looking for all the world like he had stumbled into the feast unawares. There was only the _ser_ Stannis had given him to separate him from the serving men, really. If it wasn’t for the ser part Davos Seaworth wouldn’t have even made it inside the gates, smuggler that he was, not even to be hanged.

In truth Seaworth did not even look like the guildmasters here, all of whom had donned their finest clothing and jewellery. _All_ of their finest clothing and jewellery. The Onion Knight wore wool. Jaime had no doubt it was the very best wool a landed knight could buy - Seaworth still looked like a pebble in a bag of dragons.

“Enjoying yourself, Ser Jaime?” Seaworth asked, when Jaime’s cautious circuit of the room took him past. 

“Duties are duties,” Jaime shrugged. “They’re rarely enjoyable. It takes some of the fun out of a feast when you cannot drink with your friends.” Or your family. Cersei was drinking fairly heavily this evening.

“I don’t often attend feasts like these,” the older man confessed. “The harvest feasts back on Cape Wrath are simpler affairs.”

“This is a simpler affair compared to many others. My sister’s wedding, for instance, and even that was rushed.” He smiled. “I fear I’ve become less used to grand events myself.”

“I’m told you’ve been a few years in the north. Is it really so different?” 

“More that Lord Stark keeps a different sort of house.” You’d never see so many jewels at a northern feast. It was generally a bad idea to keep so much metal next to one’s bare skin when the weather could turn freezing even at the height of summer. Northerners preferred ribbons, stoles, and scarves.

“If you’ll forgive me for asking, Ser Jaime, might I ask how it was here when Aerys was king?”

“He didn’t have parties like these,” Jaime responded without thinking. Then he _did_ think. “You’re very curious about Aerys, it seems.” 

Seaworth shrugged off the question. “I’ve spent most every day for the past several moons hunting down wildfire bought with his coin. For all the madness I have no sense of the man.” 

“Madness summarises Aerys well enough. Consider yourself lucky that you did not know him. You ask how he entertained his court of an evening? I saw him burn a man for special entertainment during the sweets, some hedge knight whose face offended him. Dinner and justice at the same time, Aerys said, and everyone in the hall just went along with it.”

It had been the last time Aerys had done that; the king realised too late that the smell of burning flesh quite ruined the taste of the strawberry tart he’d been eating. _Wouldn’t the cooks have complained. If they did not wish to be next to roast._

“That would not be a thing I’d wish to see,” Seaworth said carefully. “I hope I’ve not spoiled your appetite bringing up the memory.”

“Kingsguard don’t eat at these feasts anyway,” Jaime said. “Excuse me, ser. I’m still on duty.”

He did not hurry away. It wasn’t worth it. Seaworth was too inquisitive by half for Jaime’s liking, but at the end of the day, what did he hope to prove? Gods knew that if Tyrion did the job Ser Davos was assigned, he’d be asking Jaime all these questions too. 

He continued his rounds, past all the places in the hall where he’d seen men burned alive.

 

\---

 

Her moon blood had not come yet, and Lysa wept. Many times her moon blood had failed to come. It was more than a moon overdue now. First there was hope, and then there was despair. The extremes pulled at her.

Many times before Lysa had been with child, and yet she had no child. The last time she had carried a child the full nine moons, only to lose the boy at the last. She had wept bitter tears at the loss, and even her lord husband had mourned, shutting himself in his solar every night for weeks. Perhaps this time. At last.

She’d imagined it so often. Growing up she’d always loved to imagine the children she’d have one day. More than Cat ever had, and now Cat was the one who had four children. Lysa was so very jealous.

Jon was in their dining room for the evening meal that night, rather than dining with the king or working late, and Lysa knew she must tell him. “My lord,” she said, “My moonblood is late. I believe I am with child.” 

He’d heard the words from her often enough that he barely reacted. Maybe he got his hopes up, Lysa didn’t know. Her lord husband didn’t like her much and never confided in her. “May the gods be kind this time,” he said. “I do have other news for you.”

“For me, my lord?” Lysa kept her eyes on the table.

“Yes, my lady. I will be fostering a child with us. I would have you make him welcome.”

No. No, she didn’t want this, she didn’t want some other woman’s son in what passed for her home. Some woman who could just give away her children as if they meant nothing to her. And she didn’t want a child there to remind her every day of what she hadn’t been able to do yet.

It was all her father’s fault. _I wouldn’t have drunk it if I knew what it was._

“May I ask the boy’s name, my lord?” Lysa said.

“Maric Seaworth, son of Ser Davos Seaworth, a landed knight of the Stormlands. Ser Davos has done me great service recently. Since he has five sons to provide for, I thought I could best reward him this way.”

Five sons. Five. It wasn’t fair. “I will have a room prepared for him, my lord. When might I expect his arrival?”

“In a moon, perhaps two,” her husband said. “It will take some time for him to travel here.”

That was all the conversation for that evening. Her lord husband had little to say to her in the best of circumstances. She had little to say to him as well. 

She invited Petyr to her chambers two days later. Him at least she could talk to. He was interested in her. He always wanted to hear what she had to say. She related the whole sorry story to him over a platter of his favourite blood oranges. She’d ordered them especially for him.

“Seaworth, you say?” Petyr said. He stopped eating and leaned forward. “Now, that’s an interesting name.”

“Jon said he was a landed knight.” 

“Oh, Davos Seaworth is a landed knight, to be sure.” Petyr smiled. “But before he was a landed knight, he was a smuggler.”

“A smuggler?” Lysa could not keep the disgust from her voice. She was going to welcome the son of a criminal into her household? “I didn’t know Seaworth was _that_ lowborn.”

“The very lowest of the low,” Petyr agreed. “But don’t underestimate him on that account, my lady. Stannis Baratheon himself pardoned him, as much as Lord Stannis knows how to pardon anyone. It takes a special man to wring such a miracle from our good king’s brother.”

“What happened?” Lysa asked.

Petyr ate another slice of orange. “The smuggler Davos of Flea Bottom evaded the Redwyne cordon during the siege of Storm’s End during the Rebellion,” he told her between mouthfuls. “For his service Stannis knighted him and gave him lands. Because he was a smuggler, Stannis also chopped off his fingers.” 

“I thought you said Lord Stannis pardoned him!” 

“Oh, he did,” Petyr said. “In his own very special way. He would have hung anyone else. Now you say that the Lord Hand himself is fostering one of Seaworth’s sons. Ser Davos is climbing very high.”

Lysa sniffed. “I don’t want a criminal’s son in my home, no matter how high he’s risen.” 

Petyr just smiled. “My own grandfather was a mercenary and my mother was a merchant’s daughter,” he said. “I’d never have met you if your lord father hadn’t agreed to foster me.”

Lysa blushed and looked down. “Forgive me. I did not mean to insult you, Petyr, I truly didn’t.”

“It’s no matter. But I would not recommend mentioning such thoughts to the boy, for his own sake. Boys that age can take insults like that so personally. He will hear plenty about his lowborn father in the years to come.”

A thought struck Lysa. “Did you ever feel that way in Riverrun?”

“I was never allowed to forget it.”

He said it so calmly, like it was just a part of his life, and Lysa felt all the more shamed for it. “Oh, Petyr! I’m sorry. We never meant to make you feel unwelcome.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Petyr said. “Nor Cat, nor Edmure.”

“Father did that to you?” 

“He took me on as a favour, much like this Maric Seaworth is coming as a favour between your husband and Ser Davos. It was Lord Hoster’s generosity that brought me to Riverrun, and that alone.” He smiled again. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate all that your family has done for me. But I was never your equal.”

Lysa did not know what to say to that. He wasn’t her equal, not in birth. He never had been. “You’ve risen high,” she said uncertainly. “I always told Father that you would. It’s not like –“ 

“Like I was the near-penniless son of a hedge lord? That’s what I was. There’s no shame in it, not for me.”

“Oh, Petyr! You know I don’t care how you were born.”

“That is why you are so very important to me,” he said.

Lysa flushed at the praise. “Perhaps you could visit young Maric when he arrives,” she suggested. “If you know of how it is for someone of your – your – “ 

“Status,” he suggested.

“- status,” she continued, “Then perhaps you can introduce him to the city better than I. I know my husband trusts you so. He could not possibly object.”

Petyr helped himself to another orange. “I will likely be busy, but I’m sure I could find the time.” 

He was always so helpful, her Petyr. He was right, of course, the Red Keep was very grand. Lysa had been intimidated herself when she came here, not so much by the wealth but by the sheer number of people around. Of course the Seaworth boy would be overawed, and who better to help him adjust than Petyr. After talking to him, she even felt better about taking in the boy.

And her moon blood had not come. Perhaps this time, a child of her own. At last, at last!

 

\---

 

The master of ravens at the Red Keep had been very kind in helping Davos send word back to his home. Grand Maester Pycelle had _not_ been so courteous. 

Davos could not write it himself, of course, nor read the message he’d dictated to be sure it said what he had. Marya could not read either, nor Dale nor Allard nor Matthos (though Matthos was learning). Maric had learned, as he had told the Hand. Devan would learn, yes, when it was time.

It was not the way Davos would have chosen for his son to learn of his departure and fosterage. There was nothing to be done for it. Marya would set them all straight, and send Maric to him here in King’s Landing. She would know as well as he what an opportunity it was. 

Davos would be here to greet his son, and show him to where he would be spending the next few years of his life. Then he himself would return home. It was time. He had been too long away.

“Very well,” Lord Stannis had said when Davos broached the topic. “You’ve done good work for me. The investigation will continue without you.” 

“Should you have need of me I will return,” Davos said. He simply wished for a few moons with Marya, to see Dale wed, and to see Allard and Matthos captaining their own ships. 

Stannis had glowered at him. Stannis did not pine for his wife as Davos did for Marya. “You’ve done your duty, and more besides,” Stannis said. It sounded like the words pained him.

So here Davos was, standing before more ravens than he had ever seen before in his life. It was something of a sight, in its own way. More bright black eyes than he could count stared back at him from the shadows. 

“It’s quite a strange thing, to keep so many birds indoors,” a voice behind him said.

Davos turned to find Varys, the Master of Whisperers, had somehow snuck up on him. The man must move like a cat. Now that Davos saw him, he wondered how he could have missed the scent of the man’s perfume. 

“Almost sad,” Varys continued. “Birds like these need to fly.” 

“And roost as well,” Davos replied. “It might as well be here.”

“Ah, you are wise. I’m told you mean to leave us for your own roost soon, Ser Davos.”

“I do,” Davos said cautiously. He did not want to tell this man anything of his family. _That_ struck him as wisdom, more than anything about birds. 

Varys sighed melodramatically. “So soon, so soon, and you have brought us all such entertainment.”

“If you’ll pardon me for saying, my lord, I was not brought here for entertainment.”

A flutter of soft hands brushed the words aside. “Of course not, ser. It was Lord Stannis who brought you here, after all, and we all know how he despises entertainment. It is a pity. His heart could use lightening.”

Davos made a noncommittal noise. He did not want to converse with this man an instant longer than he had to. 

Truth be told, Varys the Spider was Davos’ next-best suspect for the murder of Aerys. Logic told him that any such assassination was likely to be Varys’ work, though it was doubtful his hands had held the knife. What stopped Davos was the knowledge that Aerys had been doomed as soon as Tywin Lannister started to sack the city – and Varys would have known that, and wanted to survive it. What better way than giving the new king his predecessor? 

That, and the way Ser Jaime hated Aerys. _Aerys would have burned the Kingswood_. _I saw him burn a man for special entertainment once._ Fire and loathing. It rang true. It put a chill down Davos’ spine.

Ser Jaime would only have had to wait for the opportunity.

“But of course,” Varys continued, “You’ve occasioned some interest all the same, ser. It seems you have been keeping a close watch on the brother of our most gracious queen.”

“There are few enough who were in King’s Landing when Aerys was king, and fewer still willing to talk to me about it.”

“True, true. They were trying times, Ser Davos, and painful memories. I myself sometimes rue how many of my old friends and colleagues fled or died in those last few weeks.”

 _The pyromancers._ “I’ve been told that there was many a murder on the day of the Sack,” Davos said, taking the opportunity presented.

“Oh, indeed. The Grand Maester and I have often commented on those sad occurrences. The previous king, sad to say, was often rather careless with the lives of those around him.”

 _A fine way to put it!_ warred with _could he possibly have misunderstood my meaning?_ Davos doubted it. _Does he wish me to suspect Pycelle?_   Davos doubted that too. Surely not every mention of another was an insinuation of guilt.

He had been too long in King’s Landing.

Varys solved his dilemma for him. “While I speak of old colleagues I would commend you on your service in helping disband the guild of alchemists. I know not who murdered so many of their elders during the Sack, but they did the city a service.”

Davos kept his face blank. _He knows._ Then, _what, exactly, does he know?_ That someone had targeted the pyromancers? Who had killed them? Who had killed Aerys? _What?_ “So I am told,” Davos said. 

“By Ser Jaime himself, no doubt. He seems to have something of a liking for you.”

For a moment there was no sound but the fluttering and croaking of ravens.

 _So it was him. Or, at least, Varys believes it was him. Or Varys wants me to believe that it was Ser Jaime._ He tired of the dance. “Do you wish to tell me something? What is it you know, my lord?” 

That made Varys laugh. It even sounded genuine. “Know, ser? I know nothing that I can prove, and so in effect, I know nothing at all. You may find it best to know the same.”

“I have a duty,” Davos said.

“A duty,” Varys replied. “A duty to what? To whom? You don’t seem a fool to me, Davos Seaworth. Accuse the queen’s brother of murder, even the murder of such men as those pyromancers, and there will be consequences. Accuse him of breaking the highest vows a knight can swear, and there may even be war.” 

He wasn’t sure about that, but he was sure that if he, a lowly smugger-turned-knight, accused Tywin Lannister’s son of so much as tripping him at a feast, he was like to find himself shorter by a head almost as soon as the words made it past his lips.

What he ought to do was to tell Lord Stannis of all this, but if _those_ words passed his lips he was like to find himself with a knife in his heart. It was not a notably better scenario.

“A duty to the realm,” Davos said firmly. He was reasonably sure it was what the other man wanted to hear. “One war is enough for me, my lord.”

Varys tittered. “To be sure. The last one was terrible enough for anyone. It would be a shame to see the Lord Hand’s hard work all come to naught.”

The mention of Jon Arryn struck fresh fear into Davos’ heart. When he left, Maric would stay here, right under the eyes of this man. A hostage, though none would see it that way, unknown to all save Davos and Varys. _I’m sorry, Maric. Marya. I didn’t mean for this to happen._ How quickly prestige could turn to peril.

More galling even than the danger he would now send his son into unawares, was the knowledge that Varys was right. He could prove nothing. 

But then, nor could Varys, by his own admission. If Davos believed that admission. He was inclined to; he himself had found no solid proof of anything. “You would have me hold my tongue until proof is found, then?” he asked. 

“I would,” Varys said. “You said it yourself, ser, we have a duty to the realm. War now would accomplish so very little.”

“Except injustice,” Davos replied sharply. “If Ser Jaime has done…anything wrong…he ought be tried, and his guilt or innocence decided in the sight of the gods, not two men talking in a garret room full of birds.” If Ser Jaime had believed that by murdering Aerys he would save the city, that might be a very different matter in Robert’s eyes. But then, if Ser Jaime had known of the wildfire, he had done nothing about it afterwards.

Varys smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. “How very like your lord you are, Ser Davos Seaworth. How very like. He would speak to me of justice as well.” 

 _What else should he speak to you of?_ Davos wondered.

“And in return I would speak of peace, and for what a low price years of such can be bought. Peace, ser. Peace and the strength of the realm is all. Next to that, what you call _justice_ hardly matters.”

He could not agree. He could not bring the words to his tongue, no matter what they might do for Maric.

And in the end, apparently assured of his silence, Varys allowed Davos to leave. The walk back to the city had never felt so long, the looming height of the Red Keep behind him so oppressive.

What was he to do?

 

\---

 

Once again there was something wrong with her brother. He was acting strangely, even more strangely than he had when he first returned to her. Nothing and nobody acted as they should these days.

Cersei could admit to herself that she was out of sorts in part because she was with child. She hated every instant of the process. Even when it was over and she had a new son she looked back on it all with disgust and discomfort. She never felt quite herself when she was carrying a child. 

All too soon, the babe would be kicking at her ribs from inside. She hated that most of all. They were _her_ innards the child would be kicking at, and Cersei hated to share. 

None of that, however, had the slightest thing to do with how Jaime was behaving.

He’d come back from the North a changed man. Anyone could see it, and she hated it. Outside, he was still golden as the sun, the man she’d always dreamed of. Inside, she could not shake the feeling that Jaime was missing his previous charge, when before he’d never thought of a woman but her. 

Rhaenys Targaryen was hardly a woman, either. It was humiliating. Her brother, a lion of the Rock, moping because he was separated from a skinny Dornish bitch.

Then there was that henchman of Stannis Baratheon’s. Cersei had seen him skulking about again too. 

“I thought you’d answered all Stannis’ questions,” Cersei said as Jaime escorted her through the Red Keep’s godswood. “What does his man even want with you now?”

Jaime shrugged. “Perhaps the pleasure of my company, dear sister of mine.” 

That was another thing that had changed. He lied to her now. It was the most important thing. 

“He’s Stannis Baratheon’s man,” Cersei said. “I doubt he has the slightest idea of what pleasure is.”

“I worked with him during the Greyjoy Rebellion,” Jaime told her, seemingly unconcerned. “Ser Davos knows ships and coastlines and smuggling. He’s hardly a threat.”

 _Liar._ Not about the Greyjoy Rebellion, but about the threat. That man had been tasked with finding wildfire. “Jaime. You wouldn’t lie to me about this, would you? I could have been in danger. Joff and Tommen could have been in danger.”

She gave him a chance. A chance was more than she ever gave anyone else.

But her words only made him frown, brow creasing in stupid feigned perplexity like it had the first time she asked him. “It seems everyone wants to know about the wildfire,” he said. “There’s nothing to tell. Aerys liked it. That’s all I know. You’ve asked me before.”

Cersei whirled and slapped him full across the face – or she tried to. Sudden as her movement had been, he still caught her arm. It put a smile back on his face as she wrenched her wrist from his grip. She wanted to kiss him then too, slap his face to leave a mark and then kiss it better, but they weren’t alone.

And he was still lying. She had seen the first lie almost as soon as he spoke it. At the time it had been more important to see the alchemists destroyed, and then she had thought he would come to his senses.

But he had not.

It was a shock. Cersei was surprised. Again. Twice he had surprised her, truly surprised her, in the past few moons. Once when he gave a flower crown to the Targaryen girl, and now when he lied. “You’re lying to me,” she said. “ _You_.” 

He wasn’t supposed to lie to her. Her twin, her other self, he was not supposed to lie to her! 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaime said. He leaned in slightly. He wanted to kiss her too.

Cersei pushed him away. “Go,” she hissed. “Don’t come back. Not until you’re ready to tell me the truth. Or I’ll find out.” 

“There’s nothing to find out.” 

“Liar!”

“Cersei-“

“It’s all over your face,” she said. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s something, I can see it. Go. Or tell me.” She bared her teeth at him. “It’s your choice.” 

If he would see his own sons burn before telling her the truth, she did not know if she could stand to keep him here. She would decide when he confessed. 

And to her surprise, he stepped away from her. He didn’t turn and leave – he was fulfilling his precious _duties_ , after all – but he stepped away. “My queen.”

Cersei turned her back on him in reply. What else was she supposed to do? It burned that she could not force the information out of him, not here, not now, where people could see them. A few hours alone, she was sure, and she would have him willing to tell her anything once again. He never denied her when she put her mind to it. 

All of a sudden even the sound of his footsteps behind her was hateful. How dare he, how dare he, how dare he. The godswood around her felt far too full of watching eyes, and the halls inside far too empty.

She did not run. She was a lioness of Casterly Rock, and no true lioness ever ran from anything. She proceeded out of the godswood and towards her chambers with all the dignity of the queen she was. And when she reached her chambers she did not slam the door on Jaime, but closed it firmly, with him on the other side.

Then and only then did she pick up the nearest object to hand – a goblet standing ready for wine – and hurl it against the wall.

It hit with a loud _clang_ , but it was metal, and did not break. She kicked over the table, which was wooden, and did break. She followed it up by tearing down a wall hanging, and that done, she called for a servant to bring her wine. The servant, when he came, cast a few nervous glances towards the broken table and the wall hanging. _Let him be nervous._ “Take that away,” she commanded him. “It’s no good to anyone now.” The servant practically fled from her presence, but outside her door, she heard him exchange a few words with Jaime.

Her brother laughed at something the man said. How dare he! How dare he laugh when she was angry with him!

He’d known about the wildfire all along. Cersei was certain of it. She should have confronted him sooner. Why hadn’t he told her? She didn’t care what Aerys did about green muck in the cellars. Once it was gone it wouldn’t matter to her at all.

So why would he lie to her? There was nothing between them that she didn’t think he needed not to know. Why would Jaime lie to her of all people? Why?

 

\---

 

When Catelyn arrived at the table for the evening meal, Jon Snow was not in his usual place. He was sat higher than he usually was, just a few places closer to his uncle. The boy was smiling, thrilled with the honour. No matter how much Ned loved his _bastard son_ , the boy was never seated above Robb, and only rarely above Sansa.

It was his sister – the boy’s true sister – who was the culprit in this change of seating arrangements. Catelyn caught the defiant flash in Rhaenys’ eyes.

Jon Snow caught sight of Catelyn, and his smile instantly died. Catelyn did not relish that she was the cause of such a reaction in a young boy, but she hardened her heart. It was more important to her now than ever that she persuade Ned to send him away, whatever the boy’s plight when he was born. He needed to be sent far away from Winterfell, where nobody would ever find him and from whence he could never have a basis to threaten her children.

Perhaps, in time, he could go to the Wall. Surely Benjen would take him. The Watch always wanted men. But from now until Jon Snow was safely sworn, Catelyn would not relent. She would not. She could not. No matter how it hurt.

And something had to be done about Rhaenys.

Rhaenys Targaryen had been particularly dedicated in her efforts to get Jon Snow to spend time with Catelyn’s daughters of late. Between Septa Mordane and Sansa’s own excited recounting, Catelyn knew all about it. Sansa was so excited to play knights and princesses with the boy she thought was her brother. She thought nothing of telling Catelyn all about it later.

Sansa was getting old enough to wonder why her mother did not approve of her supposed bastard brother, old enough to see there was a difference between how Robb was treated and how Jon Snow was. Catelyn would explain, though most of her explanation would be a lie.

Dinner was awkward. It always was, now. She sat in her accustomed place beside Ned but hardly spoke a word to him. He spoke to Jory Cassel, whilst she conversed with Maester Luwin. The children conversed amongst themselves. The occasional uncertain glances to where Ned and Catelyn were not speaking had almost stopped entirely. It had become normal for them all.

The next morning she summoned Rhaenys to her rooms. Where once Catelyn might have heard her approach as her chatter with Jaime Lannister preceded her down the hall, now Catelyn had to listen for the heavy tread of Arys Oakheart. Even Catelyn had to admit that Oakheart had about half the personality his sworn brother did. She had seen the knight in the yards, and whilst he was somewhat more than competent, he lacked Ser Jaime’s brilliance there as well. 

“Is this about dinner last night?” Rhaenys pre-empted Catelyn’s words, once she was standing contritely before her. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Lady Catelyn.”

“I was not offended,” Catelyn said, a half-truth at best. One truth had filled her life with lies. “But you must stop.”

She saw Rhaenys’ expression start to crumple. Going on was difficult, but Catelyn made herself do it. All these lies hurt so many people. If Catelyn had not promised her husband she would not tell, she would end this part of the deception right here and now. “You understand that Jon is a bastard, yes? You cannot treat him as if he is not. It gives the wrong impression. I know you would not mean to do anything that would reflect poorly on Lord Stark.” 

Rhaenys shook her head.

“Then you understand when I say you should not encourage Jon Snow to sit any higher than the place he usually sits. Even that is unusual enough.”

“Lord Eddard had no objections,” Rhaenys said.

“Lord Stark would have no wish to reprimand you in public,” Catelyn replied. “Nor to shame any of his sons so.” 

The girl seemed to accept that. Catelyn went on. “I would also like you to stop sneaking Sansa and Arya out to see him. Especially Sansa, who has lessons of her own.”

That made her head jerk up. “But he’s lonely!” she protested. “They’re his sisters!”

“His half-sisters,” Catelyn lied, to Jon Snow’s half-sister. “Trueborn, where he is a bastard. It is not appropriate.”

“But –“ she began, and then composed herself for a better argument. “I just wanted to help him feel more at home.”

“It is not appropriate,” Catelyn repeated. “Listen to me, my sweet. Jon Snow should have been fostered out long since. Bastards are not raised with their trueborn siblings. Winterfell is not truly his home.” Nor were they kept in the same house as a lord’s lady wife. Even knowing the truth, Catelyn resented the lie still.

“Sansa and Arya like it too,” Rhaenys said. There was a rare spark of mutiny in her eyes.

Rhaenys could not know it, but the words struck fear into Catelyn. She kept her composure. It might be a distant threat, but she would never, ever let her children risk themselves for Jon Snow and Ned’s lies. “They will learn what is and is not appropriate as well,” she said. “So will Jon Snow. It is best for everyone this way.”

Her husband’s ward tried once again to protest, but Catelyn forestalled her. “I do not want to hear any arguments on this, Rhaenys. You know the difference yourself."

After a tense moment, Rhaenys bowed her head. “Yes, Lady Catelyn,” she said.

If Catelyn knew anything about children, she hadn’t heard the last of this. When she had been a girl, she had well known how to meekly say _yes_ , _Father_ and then do as she had planned all along.

What she hoped was the last of it came in the form of a knock at her door near the end of the day. Ned. He always knocked just so, three firm taps to draw her attention without being so loud as to wake her if she were sleeping. The walls of Winterfell would crumble to dust before that man forgot his courtesies.

Catelyn put a robe on and opened the door. It had been a long time since he visited her in her own rooms.

“May I come in, my lady?” he asked.

“Of course.” Catelyn stood aside for him to enter. “What brings you here?”

“What have you been telling Rhaenys Targaryen?”

Catelyn sighed, deeply irritated. “Nothing that she should not have heard earlier. Did she go straight to you?”

“No,” Ned said, “It was Jon. Jon, asking me who his mother was.”

“And what has this to do with Rhaenys Targaryen – oh. It was her idea for him to ask you, was it not?”

“Indeed,” Ned said, tone grim. “Apparently Jon has some idea that he is not welcome or wanted here, and the girl thinks knowledge of his mother might ease that burden.”

Catelyn lifted her chin. “I’m sure I’ve made no secret of how I feel.” 

“He is my nephew, Catelyn. He has nobody in the world but me and his cousins, and a host of people who would kill him or use him if they knew who he was.” 

“And if you did the sensible thing and sent him to foster with a house who would be honoured to take your bastard son, separating him from my children, I would feel all the more kindly towards him. If I did not have to _lie_ to my children –“

“Do you think it’s any easier for me?” Ned asked quietly. “I love our children as much as you do, and Jon Snow as well.”

“You risk all on this and yet you could fix the worst of it in a heartbeat. Send him to Howland Reed, who knows the risk he would take.” The words burst forth, the truth that had been brewing a while now: “Ned, I cannot do this much longer, I can’t accept the boy, and Robb starts to resent me for it, Rhaenys as well. I will have to tell Sansa soon what bastardy means and I relish that thought not. Then Arya will be after her, and Bran after her. It was difficult enough to lie to Rhaenys Targaryen.”

“I have thought the same many times,” Ned said. “And each time I decided to keep lying.” 

“That’s on your head, my lord,” Catelyn said. “I do not like the person these lies make me, and I do not like being forced to be the villain in this drama. I cannot keep doing this.”

There was a very long silence after that. They both knew why.

Catelyn was the one to break it. “Ned,” she said, “I know we are not – close, now – but believe me when I say that I keep this secret for the love we shared and might share again. Will you show me the same consideration, my lord?”

“I will think on it,” Ned said quietly. “I have never wished to cause you pain. But I fear there is little I will be able to do for you. Or for any of us.”

 

\---

 

“My lord,” Davos said, “I have my suspicions about who killed Aerys Targaryen.” 

The answer to his dilemma had not come easy to Davos. He was not sure it had truly come at all. Whatever he had told Varys, he owed Stannis more loyalty than a flat lie.

 _I know nothing I can prove._ But if nobody would speak to Davos Seaworth, the one-time smuggler, he would take the matter to someone who could find out. 

Hopefully, it would not draw Varys’ ire to Maric. Davos would make no allegations. Stannis wouldn’t either, not with the information Davos had. They would know nothing they could prove, and they’d know it together. 

“Suspicions,” Stannis said, and scowled at his stack of papers. “About a murder years ago, that his grace will have no interest in seeing solved. This sounds like gossip. I have never taken you for a man who deals in gossip.”

“I have found gossip to be quite useful, my lord,” Davos said, “But no, I have suspicions only, not proof, and I have no means to get proof.”

“So you’re bringing the matter to me.” 

“Yes, my lord.” 

It was a mark of respect, Davos thought, that Lord Stannis pushed the parchment he’d been reading aside. “Out with it. Why should any of us care who killed Aerys the Mad?” 

This was it. Davos had decided to speak, and it was too late to back out now. “Because,” he said, voice fainter than he would like, “I think Ser Jaime Lannister murdered him.” 

He saw the import of the statement roll over Stannis’ face like a thundercloud. “You _think_ ,” Stannis said. He stood and walked to the window. “You _think_ this. Why?” 

“He had reason-“ 

“ _Everyone_ had reason. When Jon Arryn and Ned Stark first questioned people after the murder, that was all that they found. Reason.” 

“But not everyone had the opportunities Ser Jaime had,” Davos countered. “Nobody would question why he would carry a sword near Aerys. Nobody else was so close to the man so often. As far as I can tell, Ser Jaime was the only one Aerys was ever truly alone with in the last days.” 

“Jaime Lannister claimed he was sent away to protect Prince Aegon and his mother.” 

“And who would question him? Who lives to bear witness against him?”

“While his own father sacked the city, Ser Jaime slew the king he swore to serve.” Stannis was pacing now, back and forth across his solar. “That is quite the accusation.”

“I have no proof,” Davos reminded him. “My lord, I’ve spoken to Ser Jaime several times about the wildfire. He hated Aerys and hated all his pyromancers. He _knew_ about the pyromancers. If he knew about the wildfire-” 

Stannis turned to face him. “Then he did nothing afterwards. If he had confessed, there might have been a pardon in the offing. No, Ser Davos, if your suspicions are correct, we can rule out altruism as a motive. Spite, perhaps. I remember our discussion with Ser Jaime as well as you do.” 

“As you say, my lord.” 

Three lengths of pacing the room later, Stannis spoke again. “You should not change your plans. If Tywin Lannister learns we are gathering evidence against his son there will be trouble.”

 _Perhaps even a war._ “Yes, my lord. It will be nice to return home for a time.”

“Ser Jaime and his treachery will keep,” he continued. “It has kept this long, after all. I thank you for telling me this. If this is true, I will not have such a man guarding my brother and profaning the honour of his order. If he is guilty, he will be punished. I will send for you again, no doubt.”

 _I expected no less._ “And in the meantime?” Davos asked.

Stannis’ face was as grim as a northern winter as he said, “Watch. And wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, I can't believe I'm nearly at the end of this story. Thanks to everyone who's stuck around and everyone who's caught up and just generally everyone. I'll do my best to finish this in a timely fashion, and again, thanks for any response!
> 
> (And yes, I am planning a sequel.)


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